THE SNOW BATTLE
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 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 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
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 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.
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 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.”
“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, 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 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 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.
“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, 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!”