There was a hearty, boyish ring about the voice of the newcomer that dispelled all fears from Tom Clifton's mind.
The fire blazed up, revealing plainly the faces and figures of the visitors. The one who had spoken was a bit taller than his companion, with wide, strong shoulders, brown, curly hair, a pleasant face and very red complexion. The other was short and stocky, with a mouth that approached astonishingly close to his ears, a decidedly stubby nose, and cheeks big and round.
It was an odd face—an amazingly impudent face, that surveyed the boys with a comical grin, and one that seemed to invite antagonism. His voice, too, which the boys presently heard, was loud and boisterous.
"Why, these must be the lads your dad told us about, Tim," he exclaimed.
Hackett's face darkened.
"Look here!" he exclaimed, abruptly, "didn't you chaps fire a lot of snowballs at us a while ago?"
"Fire a lot of snowballs at you?" repeated the newcomers, looking from one to the other in apparent surprise. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said."
"No! Of course not—just got here," spoke up the taller boy, unceremoniously piling wood on the blaze. "Hi—get away, Bowser—lie down." Then he added, "My name's Sladder—Tim Sladder, and this is my friend, Billy Musgrove."
"Sladder—Sladder," repeated Hackett. "Sounds kind of familiar. Ah, yes, I remember. Why—say—you must be the son of Hiram Sladder, of the Roadside House."