Livingstone accosted him:
"That sliding, back there, must be stopped. It is a nuisance," he asserted.—It was dangerous, he declared; he himself had almost been struck by one or more of those sleds and if it had run him down it might have killed him.
The officer, after a long look at him, turned silently and walked slowly in the direction of the hill. He moved so deliberately and with such evident reluctance that Livingstone's blood boiled. He hurried after him.
"Here," he said, as he overtook him, "I am going to see that you stop that sliding and enforce the law, or I shall report you for failure to perform your duty. I see your number—268."
"All right, sir. You can do as you please about that," said the officer, rather surlily, but politely.
Livingstone walked close after him to the hilltop. The officer spoke a few words in a quiet tone to the boys who were at the summit, and instantly every sled stopped. Not so the tongues. Babel broke loose. Some went off in silence; others crowded about the officer, expostulating, cajoling, grumbling. It was "the first snow;" they "always slid on that hill;" "it did not hurt anybody;" "nobody cared," etc.
"This gentleman has complained, and you must stop," said the officer.
They all turned on Livingstone with sudden hate.
"Arr-oh-h!" they snarled in concert. "We ain't a-hurtin' him! What's he got to do wid us anyhow!"
One more apt archer than the rest, shouted, "He ain't no gentleman—a gentleman don't never interfere wid poor little boys what ain't a-done him no harm!"