“Just watch me,” requested Hiram, and hastily taking some hard round snowballs away from a smaller lad who had made them for his own use, the bully threw.
I must do him the credit to say that he was a good shot, and all three of his missiles hit the barrel head. But two of them clipped the outer edge, and only one was completely on, and that nowhere near the centre.
“Joe Matson’s got you beat a mile!” exclaimed Peaches.
“That’s all right,” answered Hiram with the easy superior air he generally assumed. “If I’d been practicing all day as you fellows have I could poke the centre every time, too.”
As a matter of fact, those three balls were the first Joe had thrown that day, but he did not think it wise to say so, for Hiram had mean ways about him, and none of the pupils at Excelsior Hall cared to rouse his anger unnecessarily.
“Well, I guess we’ve all had our turns,” spoke George Bland, after Hiram had thrown a few more balls so carelessly as to miss the barrel entirely.
“I haven’t,” piped up Tommy Burton, one of the youngest lads. “Hiram took my snowballs.”
“Aw, what of it, kid?” sneered the bully. “There’s lots more snow. Make yourself another set and see what you can do.”
But Tommy was bashful, and the attention he had thus drawn upon himself made him blush. He was a timid lad and he shrank away now, evidently fearing Shell.
“Never mind,” spoke Peaches kindly, “we’ll have another contest soon and you can be in it.”