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A stamping on the hacked, wooden floor to make sure that the steel runners were locked firmly, a wobbly interval as he stepped out and sought control of his ankles, a momentary pause on the steps, and he was out on the ice, with Silvey following. They executed a few maneuvers and sat down on the boat landing. "Ice is great," said Bill, as he tightened a skate strap.
She was filling out the monthly report cards and was not likely to detect him, but he held the note underneath his desk as he opened it, nevertheless. It was from Silvey and ran in nearly illegible figures: 17-12-19-13. 14-22-22-7 26-7 7-19-22 8-19-26-24-16 26-21-7-22-9 8-24-19-12-12-15 7-12-23-26-2 26-15-15 7-19-22 7-18-20-22-9-8 7-19-22-9-22. 25-18-15-15.
"Each fellow gets twenty cucumbers," concluded John. "That'll leave some for fun, later. If a man gets hit three times, he's a deader and has to quit. Side wins when the other fellows are killed, same as it was last year." Silvey nodded and beckoned to his clan. The Fletcherites were about to withdraw to the opposite side of the field when an unforeseen interruption occurred.
A moment later, with the rake over one shoulder, and the lawn mower trailing noisily behind him, he set off to find Silvey. A noisy whistle in front of his chum's house brought no answer. An ear-splitting clamor of "Oh, Silvey-e-e-e; Oh, Silvey-e-e-e, come on out. Come on out!" brought his mother to the door. "Bill's gone down town with his father," she said crossly.
He evaded his mother's eye and sneaked from the house. Silvey was waiting for him impatiently on the front walk. "Where's the line?" he asked. "Can't go," complained John. "She won't let me." "Aw, come on. We'll go over to Southern Avenue and she won't know a thing about it. I'll get you a rope from our house." His feeble scruples vanished.
"S'pose he'll sell us that little?" asked John, as they gazed at the tempting array of vegetables in the store window. They opened the door timidly. The rotund proprietor stepped forward as he stammered his request. "Of course!" He beamed on the trio good-naturedly. "What kind do you want, boys?" "Split's the cheapest," said Silvey thoughtfully.
In front of the Alfords', Silvey, Perry, and Sid, danced back and forth with shouts of laughter as they tried to catch the elusive bits of white. He would have joined them, but an ache in his stomach told that dinner was near, so he returned from his vantage point with a cry of "Mother! Mother! Mother! It's getting Christmasier every minute!"
At the sight of the ten-foot sandhill which the excavations for the apartments had formed, John broke into a run. "Beat you there!" he shouted. Away they went after him, pell-mell, and dashed up the yielding sides to bury their pails deep in the golden particles. Silvey braced himself, tugged his load free, and staggered along the walk for perhaps thirty feet.
At the end of a half-hour the dirt floor was brushed free of debris with a thoroughness never attained on maternal cleaning assignments, and the little desk was dragged from its winter shelter of the house to occupy the customary position of state. Red Brown stretched out on the springy, alluring sod near the building. John and Sid, Skinny and Silvey, followed his example.
"He's going to hitch it on his his new sled with a pair of oars, and go rowing over the snow when snow comes. My, but it's strong!" "We've got a Christmas tree," spoke up Silvey. "So've we," said John. "So've we," Perry added. "But mine's bigger'n any of yours," Bill insisted. "It's so big, we most had to cut a hole in the ceiling to set it up. And wide?
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