The snow held off that winter until the last week in January. Then, as though to make up for its neglect, it came down steadily for three days together and covered the Prospect and the Yard two feet deep. Of course, I don’t mean that the snow confined its attentions to the vicinity of the school; the world was white as far as one could see, save on the Sound; and there were days when you couldn’t catch a glimpse of that for the scurrying flakes. But it was around the school that the fellows were best able to judge of its depth. Of course, Mr. McCarthy, the janitor, whose real name was Owen, and not McCarthy at all, fought valiantly with his helpers to keep the paths clear, but just as fast as they shoveled snow away, more fell. There was little wind, and so there were no drifts, a lucky circumstance for Mr. McCarthy. Skating for the time was spoiled, and just when the hockey clubs were finding their ice-legs, to coin an expression. But snow-battles took the place of ice sports, and[66] there were some fine contests in the Yard. The principal battle of that campaign was one which took place at half-past four one afternoon, and lasted until darkness imposed a truce. It started out in a very small way.

Gerald was crossing from the gymnasium to Clarke. Over in front of Dudley a handful of older boys were good-naturedly pelting each other with snowballs. Back of Whitson, Thompson, the youth with whom Gerald had tried conclusions a fortnight ago, was vainly trying to throw a snowball in at the window of one of the third-floor rooms, where a friend of his laughed defiance from behind the curtain. Gerald had reached the sun-dial in the center of the Yard before Thompson spied him. Then:

“Oh, see who’s here,” shouted Thompson gleefully to his friend. “Watch me soak him, Joe.”

The first missile passed harmlessly by Gerald’s head, but the second was better aimed, and lodged uncomfortably against Gerald’s neck. Gerald brushed it away and tramped on. He recognized his enemy, but so far he had had but one lesson from Alf, and wasn’t yet ready for Mr. Thompson. Unfortunately, every step toward Clarke brought him nearer Thompson, and as Thompson was a rather good shot, progress became instantly more difficult. He thought of dropping the bundle[67] of books which he carried and retaliating, but he knew himself for a poor shot, and was sure that such an engagement would end in undignified rout on his part. So he shielded his face as best he could and went on. It’s no joke to get a well-made snowball, thrown from a distance of sixty feet, against your head, and that’s what happened to Gerald more than once after he had passed the corner of Dudley. He wanted to run, but was too proud. Encouraged by the laughing applause of his friend at the window above, Thompson advanced to meet his prey, a particularly well-moulded snowball ready to throw.

But he didn’t throw it. For at that moment his cap went off, his ear was filled with snow, and he staggered aside from the shock and unexpectedness of the attack. It was a long shot, and a lucky one, and I doubt if the small boy standing on the back porch of Merle could have duplicated it in twenty tries. But it accomplished its purpose, for it allowed Gerald to reach the safety of Clarke Hall. Thompson swung around with a laugh of annoyance, and spied his new adversary.

“Hello, kid!” he shouted. “Want yours, do you? Well, you stay there and you’ll get it.”

Harry Merrow stayed, not because he wanted to very much, but because, like Gerald, he was too proud to run. It was an unequal conflict, for[68] Thompson, advancing steadily along the walk, scored three hits to the younger boy’s one. The group in front of Dudley had paused and were watching the fray, applauding Merrow loudly.

“Give it to him, kid! You’re all right! Now’s your chance! Take your time!”

But the battle would have ended disastrously for Merrow had not another Merle Hall boy, attracted by the shouts, put his head out of an upstairs window and seen what was going on. Now, there’s a fine spirit of camaraderie among the Preparatory Class. For one thing, the boys of that class all room together in Merle, and get to know each other thoroughly. And in the present case esprit de corps came to the rescue of Merrow. The boy at the window disappeared quickly, and a minute later the back of Merle was black with boys.

“Merle, this way! Merle, this way!” was the cry.

Thompson held out for a moment, and then, the target for dozens of snowballs, retreated toward Whitson. But the fellows in front of Dudley could remain neutral no longer.

“Rush the kids!” was the cry, and the battle was on. Five minutes later almost every fellow in school was ranged on one side of the Yard or the other. The new arrivals neither knew nor[69] cared about the merits of the controversy. They simply joined whichever army was nearest. Alf and Tom and Dan, gathered in Number 7 Dudley, soon heard the noise of battle and joined the fray, Tom in his shirt-sleeves.

“What’s it all about?” asked Alf of another boy.

“I don’t know. Merle started it, they say. They’ve been fighting like little fiends, the kids have. Look out! Just missed you! Let’s rush ’em again!”

There were plenty of rushes in which the opposing sides, or the more valorous of them, met in the middle of the field of battle and fought at close quarters. Out there there was little time to make snowballs. One must simply scoop up snow and hurl it at his adversary, grapple with him, perhaps, and roll him over and “wash his face,” or stuff snow down his back and into his ears and mouth. It was hand-to-hand out there, and many brave deeds were done and many gallant rescues performed. One ate snow and breathed it and was blinded by it, and wallowed in it, and picked himself out of it gasping and shouting. Then, as though by mutual understanding, the opposing armies drew apart, still hurling snow and shouting defiance, to view their casualties and draw breath for a renewed attack.

[70]

Gerald, drawn from his room by the shouting and laughter, looked on for a minute, and then dodged around the Yard and joined the forces in front of Merle. The next moment he was rolling snowballs and firing with the best of them, the ardor of battle taking possession of him.

“Hello, Pennimore!” cried a voice at his ear. “Isn’t it fun? They tried to rush us three times, and we beat them back!”

It was Harry Merrow, his cap off, his sweater crusted with snow, his cheeks flaming, and his eyes afire with excitement. Dan, had he been at hand to see, would have had difficulty in recognizing in the person of this young warrior the tearful, homesick lad he had met in the carriage.

“That was a dandy shot of yours,” said Gerald gratefully. “Did he hurt you?”

“Who? Thompson? I guess not! I’m not afraid of him! There they go! Come on!”

And Gerald was caught, willy nilly, in the forward surge of the little army and swept out into the field. Then snowballs were flying thick and fast, boys went down left and right, assailant and assailed rolling over on the trampled field of battle. Twilight was coming fast, and already it was difficult to tell friend from enemy. Gerald had lost sight of Harry Merrow, and, for that matter, scarcely knew whether he was attacking[71] his comrades or his opponents. But he scooped up snow and dashed it wherever he saw a face, dodged in and out of the mêlée, and was having a lovely time, when something happened. His heels went into the air, his head bumped into the snow, and then, struggle as he might, he was being dragged feet-foremost toward the enemy’s line. He disputed every inch of the way, his hands groping blindly for something to hold to, and his face plowing up the snow. And then, just when he was certain he would suffocate the next moment, he was released and rolled over.

“You’re captured, kid,” laughed a familiar voice. “Will you fight on our side?”

Gerald, sputtering and choking, looked up into the face of Dan.

“No, I’m on the other side,” he gasped heroically.

“Why, it’s Gerald!” cried Dan. He pulled him to his feet. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not a bit,” said Gerald, rubbing his wet face against a wetter sleeve. Hurt! Of course he wasn’t hurt; he never felt finer in his life! What if his nose did seem to have been scraped to the bone? It was all glorious!

“Well, you’re prisoner,” laughed Dan. “If you won’t fight with us you must give your parole.”

[72]

“What’s that?” asked Gerald, as Dan, a hand on his arm, led him back toward Dudley.

“Why, agree not to fight again,” Dan explained. “You stay over there on the steps.”

“But I want to fight!” cried Gerald.

“All right, then, fight. Hello, Alf! Did you get any?”

“Yes, we got nine altogether.”

“Where are they?”

“Oh, here somewhere. They’re going to fight with us.”

“Is it right to do that?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Of course! That’s the way we play the game here.”

“Then I’ll fight,” said Gerald.

“Hello!” cried Alf, coming up, “where’d you get Gerald?”

“Oh, I fished him out of the bunch,” laughed Dan. “I didn’t know who he was until I’d dragged him half-way across the Yard. He’s going to join our side.”

“That’s right,” said Alf. “We’ll get a lot more next time. They got Tom, though.”

“Not really! Think of old Tom getting caught! Let’s rush ’em again before it gets too dark.”

Then Alf and Dan and Gerald and almost a hundred others dashed forward again with a yell,[73] and from the other side of the Yard the enemy came to meet them, and it was all a grand turmoil in the half darkness. Both sides were out for prisoners now, and there was less throwing of snow and more good, hard tussles. So far as Gerald could see, no one lost his temper, or, if he did, he found it again the next moment.

“You’d better keep back,” panted Alf, “or some one will grab you, Gerald.”

But Gerald didn’t care about that. In fact, he rather wanted to be grabbed. He wanted to match his strength against some one, friend or foe. And so he rushed into the thick of battle, fell, picked himself up, was caught around the waist and wriggled free, seized a boy almost twice his size in a vain endeavor to make a prisoner of him, and found himself with his face in the snow and the battle raging fiercely above him. He crawled out of there quickly, for it wasn’t pleasant to be walked on, staggered to his feet and drew breath. The Merle side was giving ground. Behind him at least a dozen prisoners were being hurried away. But the combat still raged, and the shouting continued. Suddenly, out from the enemy’s ranks darted a form and grappled with a boy who, standing almost at Gerald’s side, had, like himself, paused to take breath. Down they went together, there was a moment’s tussle, and[74] then the enemy, having cunningly seized his victim’s feet, started back with him. Both sides were now drawing off, and for an instant Gerald hesitated. Then, with a shrill cry of challenge, he darted forward and threw himself against the captor. The next moment Gerald and the boy he had rescued were running back toward Dudley. The captor, surprised by the unexpected attack, didn’t think of pursuit until too late.

“Much obliged,” panted the rescued youth, as he and Gerald reached safety.

“That’s all right,” said Gerald carelessly. But secretly he was immensely proud of his exploit. At that moment they stepped into the circle of light thrown by the lantern over the door of Dudley.

“Hello!” cried the other. “If it isn’t Pennimore! What do you think of that? Why, you and I started this scrap!”

It was Thompson. Gerald viewed him doubtfully.

“You mean you did,” he answered rather stiffly. Thompson laughed and clapped him on the back.

“That’s so, I guess I did. Well, say, Pennimore, I’m sorry I snowballed you. But we’re quits now, aren’t we?”

And with another laugh and a nod Thompson[75] turned away, leaving Gerald at a loss and a little indignant. What’s the good, he asked himself, of having a grudge against a fellow who makes apologies to you and claps you on the back? It was perfectly absurd! He looked aggrievedly in the direction taken by Thompson, and frowned. Then, thrusting his wet, aching hands into his trousers pockets, he turned and walked moodily toward Clarke. At the corner of the dormitory he looked back. Plainly, the combat was over. A few desultory snowballs arched across the Yard, and an occasional taunting cry or shout of defiance followed. But the two armies were dwindling away fast. It was quite dark now, and the battleground was illumined only by the streams of warm, yellow light which came from the dormitory windows. Gerald climbed to his room, feeling as though the zest had been suddenly taken out of life. Dan found him there a few minutes later, when, wet and glowing, he threw open the door.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Gerald?” he asked in surprise. “You look as though you were waiting to watch your funeral go by!” He walked over and laid his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “Look here,” he said anxiously, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” answered Gerald dully.

[76]

“Then what’s—”

“It’s Thompson,” burst out Gerald.

“Thompson? Again? What’s he done now?” And Dan’s gaze examined Gerald’s face anxiously for evidences of recent encounters.

“He hasn’t done anything,” muttered Gerald.

“Then what—”

So Gerald told his trouble, and Dan laughed until it hurt. And after a while Gerald managed to smile, too.

“But I don’t see how that makes us quits, Dan,” he said seriously. “He snowballed me all across the Yard, and then I ran in and rescued him from some big chap who was making him prisoner. I don’t see that he’s done anything to make it quits, do you?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” laughed Dan. “But it’s funny, just the same, the cheek of it. Thompson must have a keen sense of humor, Gerald.”

“He had no business to hit me on the back and say we were quits,” said Gerald stubbornly.

“Well, he did it; apologized, too. You can’t fight a chap for that, Gerald, I guess.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” Gerald was silent a moment. Then: “But I’m going to keep on learning to box, Dan, just the same,” he declared.

“Well, there’s no harm in that,” replied Dan,[77] getting out of his wet clothes. “It’s a good thing to know, boxing.”

“Yes,” said Gerald hopefully, “because maybe he will do something else some day, and then I’ll be ready for him!”