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“I will see who it is,” he decided, and plunging through the snow he surmounted the wall, in time to see a boy of about his own age running away across the fields as fast as the deep snow would allow.
“So it’s you, Jonas!” he shouted wrathfully. “I thought it was some sneaking fellow like you.”
Jonas Webb, his step-brother, his freckled face showing a degree of dismay, for he had not calculated on discovery, ran the faster, but while fear winged his steps, anger proved the more effectual spur, and Phil overtook him after a brief run, from the effects of which both boys panted.
“What made you throw that snow-ball?” demanded Phil angrily, as he seized Jonas by the collar and shook him.
“You let me alone!” said Jonas, struggling ineffectually in his grasp.
“Answer me! What made you throw that snowball?” demanded Phil, in a tone that showed he did not intend to be trifled with.
“Because I chose to,” answered Jonas, his spite getting the better of his prudence. “Did it hurt you?” he continued, his eyes gleaming with malice.
“I should think it might. It was about as hard as a cannon-ball,” returned Phil grimly. “Is that all you’ve got to say about it?”
“I did it in fun,” said Jonas, beginning to see that he had need to be prudent.
“Very well! I don’t like your idea of fun. Perhaps you won’t like mine,” said Phil, as he forcibly drew Jonas back till he lay upon the snow, and then kneeling by his side, rubbed his face briskly with snow.
“What are you doin’? Goin’ to murder me?” shrieked Jonas, in anger and dismay.
“I am going to wash your face,” said Phil, continuing the operation vigorously.
“I say, you quit that! I’ll tell my mother,” ejaculated Jonas, struggling furiously.
“If you do, tell her why I did it,” said Phil.
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