Despite the ignoble garment that cramped it, the boy's breast swelled with pride in his lady's approval.
"You could just fire one at him from here, anyway," suggested Irene, adaptable as her sex is to contemporary standards and customs.
"Ye-es," said the boy, hesitating; "but he's such a poor old luny."
Split turned her imperial little hooded head questioningly.
"They had coasted only half a block"
"He is—really luny," said the boy, apologetically. "Since his little girl wandered away one day from home and never came back, he gets spells, you know. He was telling ma one day when she went over to do his washing. But—but I will land one on him if you want, Split."
But Split had suddenly pivoted clear around and sat now facing him, an eager, mittened hand staying his hard, skilful, obedient fingers, already making the snowball.
"How—how old would that little girl be, Jack?" she gasped.
"Why, 'bout twelve—thirteen. Why?"