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Bobby Blake on the School Nine; Or, The Champions of the Monatook Lake League
CHAPTER I
FLYING SNOWBALLS
“Ouch!”
“That was a dandy!”
“How’s that for a straight shot?”
“Thought you could dodge it, did you?”
“Have a heart, fellows! I’ve got a ton of snow down my back already.”
A tumult of shouts and laughter rose into the frosty air from a group of boys, ranging in age from ten to twelve years, who were throwing and dodging snowballs near the railroad station in the little town of Clinton.
Even the fact that four of the group were on their way back to school after the Christmas holidays was not sufficient to dampen their youthful spirits, and the piles of snow heaped up back of the platform had been too tempting to resist.
As though moved by a single spring they had dropped the bags they were carrying, and the next instant the air was full of flying snowballs. Most of them found their mark, though a few in the excitement of the fray passed dangerously near the station windows.
Flushed and eager, the panting warriors advanced or retreated, until a stray missile just grazed the ear of the baggage man, who was wheeling a load of trunks along the platform. He gave a roar of protest, and the boys thought it was time to stop. But they did it reluctantly.
“Too bad to stop right in the middle of the fun,” said Bobby Blake, a bright wholesome boy of about eleven years, with a frank face and merry brown eyes.
“Bailey’s got a grouch on this morning,” remarked Fred Martin, better known among the boys as “Ginger,” because of his red hair and equally fiery temper.
“I never saw him any other way,” put in “Scat” Monroe, one of the village boys, who had come down to the station to bid his friends good-bye. “I don’t believe Bailey ever was a boy.”
“Oh, I guess he was – once,” said Bobby, with the air of one making a generous concession, “but it was so long ago that he’s forgotten all about it.”
“Perhaps you’d be grouchy too if you came near being hit,” ventured Betty Martin, Fred’s sister, “especially if you weren’t getting any fun out of it.”
Betty formed one of a party of girls who bad accompanied the boys to the station to see them off. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, these girls had stood huddled together like a flock of snowbirds, watching the friendly scuffle and giving a little squeal occasionally when a snowball came too close to them.
Fred looked at his sister coldly. He was very fond of Betty, but as the only boy in a large family of girls, he felt it was incumbent on him to maintain the dignity of the male sex. He had pronounced ideas on the necessity of keeping girls in their place, and Betty was something of a trial to him because she refused to be squelched.
“Of course, girls feel that way,” he said loftily. “They’re afraid of the least little thing. But men aren’t such scare-cats.”
“Men!” sniffed Betty scornfully. “You don’t call yourself a man, do you?”
“Well, I’m going to be some day,” her brother retorted, “and that’s more than you can say.”
This was undeniable, and Fred felt that he had scored a point.
Betty was reduced to the defensive.
“I wouldn’t want to be,” she rejoined rather feebly.
Fred cast a proud look around.
“Sour grapes!” he ejaculated.
Then, elated by his success, he sought rather imprudently to follow it up.
“As for me,” he declared, “I wouldn’t care how hard I was hit. I’d only laugh.”
Betty saw an opening.
“You wouldn’t dare let me throw one at you,” she challenged, her eyes dancing.
Fred went into pretended convulsions.
“You throw!” he jeered. “A girl throw! Why! you couldn’t hit the – the side of a house,” he ended lamely, his invention failing.
“I couldn’t, eh?” cried Betty, a little nettled. “Well, you just stand up against that post and see if I can’t.”
Fred was somewhat startled by her prompt answer to his taunt, but it would never do to show the white feather.
“All right,” he responded, and took up his position, while Betty stood some twenty feet away.
The laughing group of boys and girls gathered around her, and Bobby and Scat began to make snowballs for Betty.
“No, you don’t!” cried Fred. “I know you fellows. You’ll make soakers. Let Betty make her own snowballs.”
“What do you care, if you’re so sure she can’t hit you?” said Bobby slyly.
“Never you mind,” replied Fred, ignoring the thrust. “You leave all that to Betty.”
The boys desisted and Betty made her own missiles.
“How many chances do I have?” she asked. “Will you give me three shots?”
“Three hundred if you like,” replied her brother grandly. “It’s all the same to me.”
He stiffened up sternly against the post. Somewhere he had seen a picture of Ajax defying the lightning, and he hoped that he looked like that.
Betty poised herself to throw, but at the last moment her tender heart misgave her.
“I – I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” she faltered.
“Aw, go ahead,” urged “Mouser” Pryde, one of the four lads who were leaving for school.
“Aim right at his head,” added “Pee Wee” Wise, another schoolmate who was to accompany Bobby and Fred to Rockledge.
“You can’t miss that red mop of his,” put in Scat heartlessly.
“N-no,” said Betty, dropping her hand to her side. “I guess I don’t want to.”
Fred scented an easy victory, but made a mistake by not being satisfied to let well enough alone.
“She knows she can’t hit me and she’s afraid to try,” he gibed.
The light of battle began to glow in Betty’s eyes, but still she stood irresolute.
“I’ll give you a cent if you hit me,” pursued Fred.
“My! isn’t he reckless with his money?” mocked Pee Wee.
“He talks like a millionaire,” added Mouser.
“A whole cent,” mused Bobby.
Fred flushed.
“Make it a nickel, then,” he said. “And if that isn’t enough, I’ll give you a dime,” he added, in a final burst of
