y face," retorted Bill. Secretly he was
not sorry that the work was at an end. "Get your new sled and we'll go
hitching. Beat you over to our street."

They dashed up the nearest private walk into a residential back yard,
and dropped their shovels over the back fence. John wedged one foot
between a telegraph pole and a picket, and drew himself up.

"Come on, Sil."

Silvey braced himself for the spring. A rear window in the house creaked
open and a woman's head appeared.

"What are you boys doing?" called the shrill voice. They dropped over
into the other yard, and John started to run.

"She's in curl papers," said Bill. "She won't chase us. Let's fix her."

"I'll call the police if you go through again," she persisted as the
boys filled their hands with snow. John gave a few finishing pats to his
missile.

"How'd you like to have her for a mother?" he asked his chum, as he drew
his arm back for the assault.

A projectile broke against the window sash and showered snow fragments
upon the untidy hair. A second went a serene way through the opening and
dissolved in a blot of hissing water on the kitchen stove. The frame
slammed to with a violence which threatened destruction to the window
glass, and John grabbed his shovel with an exultant yell.

"Now run like the dickens!"

They parted at the Silveys'. John continued on a dogtrot towards home,
and a moment later was pestering Mrs. Fletcher at her work in the
kitchen.

"Where's some rope, Mother?"

She looked from the pile of napkins on the ironing board. "What do you
want it for, son?"

"My sled."

She walked over to a box behind the kitchen gas range and drew out a
three-foot length. "Will this do?"

"No. Got to be lots longer than that."

"You're not going hitching, are you?"

He shook his head dubiously.

"Now, John! There have been little boys killed because wagons ran over
them when their ropes broke and they couldn't get out of the way!"

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. A five-minute stop at the Silveys sufficed
to make the necessary alterations in John's equipment. Bill brought out
his own sled, and they started for the corne