There were quick steps, and Billy rushed in, his eyes large, his cheeks pale.
"Mr. Joe!" he said breathlessly.
"Yes, Billy."
"There's a lot of men out on the street, and they're beginning to fire snowballs!"
Nathan Slate came in, a scarecrow of fear, teeth chattering.
"Oh, Mr. Joe," he wailed. "Oh, Mr. Joe!"
Joe's mother rose, and spoke under her breath.
"Mr. Slate, sit down at once!"
Slate collapsed on a chair, trembling.
Joe felt as if a fork of lightning had transfixed him—a sharp white fire darting from head and feet and arms to his heart, and whirling there in a spinning ball. He spoke quietly: