"How does that feel?" asked Sam.
"That's the second snowball you've fired at me," said Frank quietly, but there was a light in his eyes as he spoke. "I advise you not to fire another if you know what is good for yourself."
"So you threaten me, do you? Suppose I fire again, what's going to happen?" demanded Sam, with an unpleasant sneer.
"I think you will be sorry for it," said Frank.
Sam hesitated a moment, but only a moment. He was a year older than Frank, and larger in size. Certainly he ought to be a match for him. But he did not believe that Frank would have the audacity to touch him, the son of Squire Ashmead, the richest man in the village. He therefore deliberately made another snowball, and firing it, struck Frank in the back of his head.
Frank no sooner felt the blow than he threw down his shovel, and ran toward his assailant.
"Keep off, you beggar!" said Sam.
"It's too late," said Frank. "I warned you not to fire again."
Sam placed himself in an attitude of defense, but found himself seized violently round the middle, and before he fairly knew what was going to happen he was lying in a snow-bank with Frank standing over him.