[CHAPTER VII]
THE SNOW BATTLE
The snow held off that winter until the last week in January. Then, as though to make up for its neglect, it came down steadily for three days together and covered the Prospect and the Yard two feet deep. Of course, I don’t mean that the snow confined its attentions to the vicinity of the school; the world was white as far as one could see, save on the Sound; and there were days when you couldn’t catch a glimpse of that for the scurrying flakes. But it was around the school that the fellows were best able to judge of its depth. Of course, Mr. McCarthy, the janitor, whose real name was Owen, and not McCarthy at all, fought valiantly with his helpers to keep the paths clear, but just as fast as they shoveled snow away, more fell. There was little wind, and so there were no drifts, a lucky circumstance for Mr. McCarthy. Skating for the time was spoiled, and just when the hockey clubs were finding their ice-legs, to coin an expression. But snow-battles took the place of ice sports, and there were some fine contests in the Yard. The principal battle of that campaign was one which took place at half-past four one afternoon, and lasted until darkness imposed a truce. It started out in a very small way.
Gerald was crossing from the gymnasium to Clarke. Over in front of Dudley a handful of older boys were good-naturedly pelting each other with snowballs. Back of Whitson, Thompson, the youth with whom Gerald had tried conclusions a fortnight ago, was vainly trying to throw a snowball in at the window of one of the third-floor rooms, where a friend of his laughed defiance from behind the curtain. Gerald had reached the sun-dial in the center of the Yard before Thompson spied him. Then:
“Oh, see who’s here,” shouted Thompson gleefully to his friend. “Watch me soak him, Joe.”
The first missile passed harmlessly by Gerald’s head, but the second was better aimed, and lodged uncomfortably against Gerald’s neck. Gerald brushed it away and tramped on. He recognized his enemy, but so far he had had but one lesson from Alf, and wasn’t yet ready for Mr. Thompson. Unfortunately, every step toward Clarke brought him nearer Thompson, and as Thompson was a rather good shot, progress became instantly more difficult. He thought of dropping the bundle of books which he carried and retaliating, but he knew himself for a poor shot, and was sure that such an engagement would end in undignified rout on his part. So he shielded his face as best he could and went on. It’s no joke to get a well-made snowball, thrown from a distance of sixty feet, against your head, and that’s what happened to Gerald more than once after he had passed the corner of Dudley. He wanted to run, but was too proud. Encouraged by the laughing applause of his friend at the window above, Thompson advanced to meet his prey, a particularly well-moulded snowball ready to throw.
But he didn’t throw it. For at that moment his cap went off, his ear was filled with snow, and he staggered aside from the shock and unexpectedness of the attack. It was a long shot, and a lucky one, and I doubt if the small boy standing on the back porch of Merle could have duplicated it in twenty tries. But it accomplished its purpose, for it allowed Gerald to reach the safety of Clarke Hall. Thompson swung around with a laugh of annoyance, and spied his new adversary.
“Hello, kid!” he shouted. “Want yours, do you? Well, you stay there and you’ll get it.”
Harry Merrow stayed, not because he wanted to very much, but because, like Gerald, he was too proud to run. It was an unequal conflict, for Thompson, advancing steadily along the walk, scored three hits to the younger boy’s one. The group in front of Dudley had paused and were watching the fray, applauding Merrow loudly.
“Give it to him, kid! You’re all right! Now’s your chance! Take your time!”