"That'd beat us, then," said Dan Madderley. "We'd better try George Washington."
"He's on horseback," said Joe, "and so is Andrew Jackson. No use for us to try a horse. Snow legs won't hold up. He'd come down all in a heap."
A dozen other great names followed, each bringing with it a chorus of doubts as to how he looked, and whether anything like him could be found in that heap of snow; but the shrill voice of little Billy McCoy settled the matter. He had followed his big brothers down upon the ice, and now he eagerly squeaked:
"Boys, why don't you scoop out Ben Franklin? Make him sitting down."
"Hurrah for you, Billy!" exclaimed Joe Larkin. "Guess we all know Ben. He's just the man."
"Guess he is," chirped Billy. "He's fat, too. You can make him real big."
On piled the snow, after that, until they had to reach up with their shovels. When Joe Larkin began to play sculptor, he had to dig his toes into the snow and climb.
"We'll make his head first," he sagely remarked; "and we'll cut out the rest of him to fit that."
"Dig away, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, from the other side of the quarry. "Let's see which of us'll get in first to where old Ben is."
"We'll set him up with his hands in his lap," said Joe; "and we'll part his hair in the middle."