It was Harry Merrow, his cap off, his sweater crusted with snow, his cheeks flaming, and his eyes afire with excitement. Dan, had he been at hand to see, would have had difficulty in recognizing in the person of this young warrior the tearful, homesick lad he had met in the carriage.
“That was a dandy shot of yours,” said Gerald gratefully. “Did he hurt you?”
“Who? Thompson? I guess not! I’m not afraid of him! There they go! Come on!”
And Gerald was caught, willy nilly, in the forward surge of the little army and swept out into the field. Then snowballs were flying thick and fast, boys went down left and right, assailant and assailed rolling over on the trampled field of battle. Twilight was coming fast, and already it was difficult to tell friend from enemy. Gerald had lost sight of Harry Merrow, and, for that matter, scarcely knew whether he was attacking his comrades or his opponents. But he scooped up snow and dashed it wherever he saw a face, dodged in and out of the mêlée, and was having a lovely time, when something happened. His heels went into the air, his head bumped into the snow, and then, struggle as he might, he was being dragged feet-foremost toward the enemy’s line. He disputed every inch of the way, his hands groping blindly for something to hold to, and his face plowing up the snow. And then, just when he was certain he would suffocate the next moment, he was released and rolled over.
“You’re captured, kid,” laughed a familiar voice. “Will you fight on our side?”
Gerald, sputtering and choking, looked up into the face of Dan.
“No, I’m on the other side,” he gasped heroically.
“Why, it’s Gerald!” cried Dan. He pulled him to his feet. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not a bit,” said Gerald, rubbing his wet face against a wetter sleeve. Hurt! Of course he wasn’t hurt; he never felt finer in his life! What if his nose did seem to have been scraped to the bone? It was all glorious!
“Well, you’re prisoner,” laughed Dan. “If you won’t fight with us you must give your parole.”