one A. M. suppers at Sherry's, and doublin' no trumps at a
quarter a point, could unbuckle enough to build snow forts, and yell
like Indians, and cut up like kids generally. But they does--washed
each other's faces, and laughed and whooped it up until dark. Didn't
need the dry Martinis to jolly up appetites for that bunch when dinner
time come, and if there was anyone awake in Rockywold after ten o'clock
that night it was the butler and the kitchen help.

I looked for 'em to forget it all by mornin' and start in again on
their punky card games; but they was all up bright and early, plannin'
out new stunts. There'd been a lot of snow dropped durin' the night,
and some one gets struck with the notion that buildin' snow men would
be the finest sport in the world. They couldn't hardly wait to eat
breakfast before they gets on their blanket clothes and goes at it.
They was rollin' up snow all over the place, as busy as
'longshoremen--all but Pinckney. He gives out that him and me has been
appointed an art committee, to rake in an entrance fee of ten bones
each and decide who gets the purse for doin' the best job.

"G'wan!" says I. "I couldn't referee no such fool tournament as this."

"That's right, be modest!" says he. "Don't mind our feelings at all."

Then Sadie and Mrs. Pell butts in and says I've just got to do it; so I
does. We gives 'em so long to pile up their raw material, and half an
hour after that to carve out what they thinks they can do best, nothin'
barred. Some starts in on Teddy bears, one gent plans out a cop; but
the most of 'em don't try anything harder'n plain snow men, with lumps
of coal for eyes, and pipes stuck in to finish off the face.

It was about then that Count Skiphauser moves out of the background and
begins to play up strong. He's one of these big, full blooded pretzels
that's been everywhere, and seen everything, and knows it all, and
thinks there ain't anything but what he can do a little better'n
anybody else.

"Oh, well," says he, "I suppose I must show you what snow carving
really is. I won a prize for this sort of thing in Berlin, you know."

"It's all over now," says I to Pinckney. "You heard Skippy pickin'
himself for a winner, didn't you?"

"He's a bounder," says Pinckney, talkin' corner-wise--"lives on his
bridge and poker winnings. He mustn't get the prize."

But Skiphauser ain't much more'n blocked out a head and shoulders 'fore
it was a cinch he was a ringer