“I reckon so.—Are you going to try, Dave?”
“Yep,” answered Dave, looking up for a moment from his work. “I’m down for everything.”
“But how do you know that there’ll be any ice by Wednesday, Paddy?” asked Wayne. Paddy nodded gleefully toward the front window.
“Look at the thermometer, my lad; it was only twenty above a minute ago, and it’s been going down steadily since noon. Oh, don’t you worry about the ice. That’s all right.”
“Well, just as you say, Paddy.—Dave, have you got any old golf balls?”
“Yep, somewhere. Why?”
“I want ’em.”
“Well, look about the place. There’s one or two in that mug over there.” Wayne searched the mantel and what drawers he came across, and soon had seven badly battered little globes before him. He shook his head.
“Those aren’t nearly enough,” he muttered. He looked around and his eyes lighted on Dave’s closet. The boys at the table were too busy to heed him as he opened the door and brought out a box containing eight brand-new Silvertowns. At the hearth he laid his find down and picked up the fire shovel. Placing one of the immaculate white balls on the hearth he proceeded to knock dents in it. It was hard work, but he at last managed to disfigure six of the eight and was hammering at the seventh when a glancing blow sent the little ball whizzing into the air to the table where it landed with a bang under Dave’s nose.
“What in thunder?” he cried, staring at Wayne.