"You leave me alone!" she blazed. "You've hurt my knee."
"Want to fall on your head?" demanded Bobby, justly indignant. "All
right, if that's the way you feel about it, I'll give you something to
be mad about."
Before the surprised Dot could protest, he had seized her firmly around
the neck and, holding her tightly (Bobby was very sturdy for his seven
years), he proceeded to wash her face with a handful of snow he hastily
scooped from the window sill. Dot was furious, but, though she
struggled and squirmed, she could not get free.
"Now you'll be good," said Bobby, giving her a sounding kiss as he let
her go, for he was very fond of his headstrong little sister. "Want
your face washed, Twaddles?"
There was a sudden rush for the window and Meg and Twaddles and Dot
armed themselves with handfuls of snow. Dot made for Twaddles, for she
saw more chance of being able to capture him, and Bobby had designs on
Meg.
"Glory be! Where to now?" Norah's cry came from the pantry as four
pairs of stout shoes thundered through her kitchen and up the back
stairs. Norah, if the children had stopped long enough to hear, would
have told them that she had hurried home to start supper after seeing
the "episode" of the serial picture she was interested in at the motion
picture house.
Dot sounded like a husky young Indian as she hurled herself upon
Twaddles in the center of Aunt Polly's carefully made bed in the
guest-room and rubbed what was left of her handful of snow into his
eyes and mouth.
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