“Tom, see if there’s a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst,” directed Joe with a smile.
Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to the sill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles of ginger ale.
“Our patent refrigerator,” explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. “Do the uncorking act, Tom, and we’ll get busy. You can go to sleep,”—this last to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch.
“Oh, but that’s good!” murmured Peaches as he drained his glass. “Now I can talk. I came in, Joe and Tom, to see if you didn’t think it would be a good thing to have a fight.”
“A fight! For cats’ sake, who with?” demanded Tom.
“Are you spoiling for one?” asked Joe.
“Oh, I mean a snowball fight. This is probably the last of the season, and I was thinking we could get a lot of fellows together, make a fort, and have a regular battle like we read about in Cæsar to-day. It would be no end of sport.”
“I think so myself,” agreed Joe.
“Bully!” exclaimed Tom sententiously, burying his nose in his ginger ale glass. “Go on, tell us some more.”
“Well, I was thinking,” resumed Peaches, “that we——”