Although Bob was, as it seemed, so callous to Ned’s black eye, not so with the other members of the household.

Filled with recipes from his friends, for changing a black eye to normal white, Ned returned home, and unseen save by Bob, gained his room. He put in an anxious half hour experimenting; but at the end his eye seemed blacker than ever—a dense, deep, wicked black. It seemed to Ned that there was nothing to his face but that black eye; and assuming a manner of unconcern he descended the stairs and went about his chores.

“N-Ned!” gasped his mother, meeting him in the kitchen. Maggie, the girl, giggled. Ned dropped his armful of wood into the wood-box with the usual crash, and answered, mildly, keeping his head down while he pretended to arrange some of the sticks.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Look up here.”

Ned obeyed, trying to present only his white side.

“Why, what in the world have you been doing? Is that a bruise around your eye, or is it dirt?”

“Bruise, I guess,” responded Ned, shuffling his feet uneasily.

“Where did you get it?”

“Fight. Fellow stuck his thumb in it.”

Ned wished that his mother would let him alone; but she would not.

“The very idea! Whom did you have a fight with?”

“Big Mike Farr—and I’d have licked him only they all jumped onto me.”

“Come here and let me look at it,” bade his mother, aghast.

Ned approached, sheepish in mien, yet determined to stick up for himself in case she took him to task.

But she did not. She stood him by the sink, and while she treated his wound with homely remedies, applied by soft touch, she let him tell his battle-story. And when his story and his treatment had been finished together, and he had emerged with a huge bandage encircling his crown like a turban, she only sighed:

“Oh, Neddie! Why will boys fight!”

“Indeed, ma’am, an’ I for one am mighty glad that he wor havin’ the best of that Mike Farr,” blurted Maggie, who had been listening with approval. “Sure, Mike Farr is nothin’ but a coward an’ a blow. I know him; I know him well, bad cess to him.”

“He’s mean, isn’t he, Maggie?” appealed Ned.

“That he is. He’ll come to the gallows; he will. An’ all that South Beaufort gang, too. Yes, I know ’em,” declared Maggie, wagging her head. “They’re regular little divils.”

“Maggie!” exclaimed Mrs. Miller, somewhat shocked.

“Well, they’d better not tackle us fellows again,” asserted Ned, swaggering out for another armful of wood.

Maggie gazed after him admiringly.

“Sure, an’ I bet he’s a fighter when he gets started,” she mused. “Look at them legs an’ arms! An’ Big Mike twice his size, too.”

“Maggie,” reproved Mrs. Miller, “I don’t want you to encourage Ned in fighting. I don’t like it.”

And she withdrew in dignity to the sitting-room, where, safe in privacy, she did not know whether to laugh or be provoked. At any rate, she did not relish the idea of her Neddie going about with a chip on his shoulder, challenging boys “twice his size,” according to Maggie.

Mr. Miller, coming home, from afar descried Ned’s turban as it bobbed around in the back yard.

“Hello,” he hailed. “That’s a new kind of cap, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” smiled Ned. “And I’ve got a new eye, too. Want to see it?” and advancing toward the front to meet his father he obligingly lifted the bandage.

“Phew!” said Mr. Miller, gravely. “I think I prefer the old eye. Was this a present?”

“I traded for it,” laughed Ned.

His father put a hand on his shoulder, and together they entered the house. Here Ned, helped out by his mother, again made his explanations. At the close his father simply said:

“Well, Ned, I don’t see how you could have acted any differently—but I don’t approve of fighting, any more than does your mother. Fighting is not always a fair test of your side of a question, you know. It is better to avoid a fight by every honorable means in your power. Sometimes it is more cowardly to fight than to keep from fighting. But if you can’t avoid it,” he added, quizzically; “if there’s nothing left to do, to save honor, but fight, then fight for all there is in you!”

“Will!” protested Mrs. Miller, horrified.

“But if I had to fight—just had to fight—you’d want me to lick, wouldn’t you, mother?” appealed Ned.

“I can’t bear to think of your fighting at all, Neddie,” declared his mother, firmly.

Ned’s black eye went away rapidly—although not so rapidly as it had come—and he was made to wear the bandage only a short time. For this he was thankful, since warm weather arrived, and with it “good packing”—and what boy can throw straight with but one eye.

At first the thaw improved the coasting, but in the end it spoiled it. So long as the coasting lasted the South Beaufort gang continued to use the hill, but no more fights occurred.

The two crowds let each other alone, carefully ignoring each other’s presence, the only exception being when Bob dropped his tail between his legs, reminded of past insults, and raised the bristles on his back, and when Ned and Big Mike exchanged scowls of mutual defiance. In this by-play of looks Ned came off rather the worse, his eye still showing up, while Big Mike was apparently as good—or as bad—as ever.

The careful truce, however, was merely the calm before the storm. Big Mike and his companions were biding their time.

Much to Ned’s disappointment, the thaw merged into a Saturday of foggy drizzle, under which the snow silently ran away in water, instead of as silently, but more slowly, vanishing as vapor into the air.

Bound to have what few coasts might yet be found on the hill, Ned and Bob hastened there the moment that they had finished their early morning chores—“their” chores, for Bob, although of no real help in a manual way, always faithfully “stood by.”

At the same time with Ned and Bob, arrived on the hill Hal and Tom. Les’ Porter, Orrie Lukes, and three or four other boys already were there, and several more came within a few moments.

The coasting was miserable. The track was slush down to bare road, and from top to bottom the sled-runners tore through with a “squshy” sound. Ned’s clipper loyally set out to carry him as far and as swiftly as ever, but after a few trials he was obliged to retire it to one side, and take a seat on Hal’s bob.

So poor was the going, that when a party of South Beauforters appeared at the crest, they looked on for a minute, sneeringly, and then slouched away, bobs, and all, in the direction whence they had come.

“Good riddance!” scoffed Ned.

“Good riddance!” congratulated the crowd generally, following his example.

Bob flaunted his tail at the retreating backs.

Half an hour passed. The coasters, now about twenty—including girls and small boys—were, as it happened, for the most part at the top, preparing to plough down again along the soft course, when “thud!” “slap!” “biff!” into their midst tore a hail of snowballs, smashing on face and body and sled.

“Ki!” yapped Bob, startled by a stinging missile.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Jeff Patting, clapping his hand to his cheek.

Before the astounded coasters could look around, hurtled upon them another volley, escorted by a slogan of shrill, triumphant, vengeful yells.

South Beauforters!

That riddance had not been so “good,” after all. Reinforced, the party was returning, and pouring from the mouth of a convenient alley, down swept the enemy, to profit by his sudden approach.

Big Mike was there, and the Conners were there, and Patsy, as fierce as any of them, was there. South Beaufort had been wily enough to use the hill while the hill was usable; but at last, in this day of slush, it was free to throw off its mask and declare war.

The coasters scattered. The small boys, some of them frightened or hurt into crying, ran for home; the girls, with scornful looks, disdaining to hurry, withdrew in fair order to a safe distance; and the larger boys, diverging to different points of the compass as they essayed to reply yet bring off their sleds safely, sought here and there for refuge.

With taunting cries the South Beauforters attacked them viciously, worrying their every step.

“Watch out! They’re throwing ‘soakers’!” warned Ned, as, keeping together, he and Hal and Tom, dragging their bob, answering snowball with snowball and taunt with taunt, stubbornly gave ground up the opposite alley.

“Oh, Ned! You left your sled!” suddenly exclaimed Hal, stopping short.

“Say——!” uttered Ned, taking a hasty step toward the crest again.

But too late. The crest was in possession of the South Beauforters, and at the moment they had discovered the clipper, deserted and lying in the ditch! Big Mike it was who hauled it forth, Big Mike it was who gleefully waggled its rope, Big Mike it was who whooped the loudest and the most maddening.

“Hey! You leave that sled alone!” yelled Ned, shaking his fist.

“You come and get it!” retorted Big Mike.

“I would if you were alone,” asserted Ned.

“Aw, I’ll give you another black eye,” gibed Mike, while Ned dodged one well-aimed shot, and caught a second on the leg.

“Just you wait till we put up this bob,” threatened Hal.

“Yes, ‘just wait,’” mocked Big Mike and his gang.

The bob was put up in short order by chucking it over the alley fence of Hal’s home; then back rushed the boys, to re-engage the foe.

They resolved that Ned must have his sled, at all hazard. It was awful, to think of it in the hands of that Mike. True little sled, the best sled in town.

As for Bob the dog, for all the aid he was to them, they might as well have chucked him, too, over the fence and left him. He was no good when it came to this fighting at long range, and with his tail tightly reefed, and his ears down, and an expression of intense discomfort, he clung close to Ned’s calves.

Bob was no coward, but what dog likes to have things thrown at him; and Bob was under the delusion that every ball was aimed at him alone. He couldn’t understand.

So for the rest of this fight he must be content not to understand, and to play but a minor part.

The South Beauforters, now having in mind no more worlds to conquer, decided to return to their haunts. Laughing and swearing, they started to tramp up the road; and freest of all in mouth and actions was Big Mike, twitching behind him the unwilling clipper sled.

From the alley the three boys delivered a round of snowballs as a token that the combat was on once more.

“Head ’em off! Cut through the yards!” cried Ned; over fences and through the yards scurried the boys, and came out at the front of the retreating foe.

“Give ’em ‘soakers’!” urged Hal, squeezing a snowball between his knees.

“Soakers,” as the name shows, are snowballs which have been soaked and wrung out, so to speak. They are heavy, and hard, and when they hit, hurt.

They are not lawful snowballs, but in a warfare of this kind they prove very useful.

By this time other boys had put away their bobs and sleds, also, and had hastened to wage battle. By this time, moreover, comrades far and wide were getting the news, and dropping chore and game were rallying to the scene.

Through yards, around corners, they sped; in ambush behind tree-box and fence they waited; into the ranks of the South Beauforters rained the missiles.

“Soakers” was the watchword—and with the slush so handy there was no danger of ammunition running out.

On a small scale it was like that memorable retreat of the British from Concord to Lexington. The South Beauforters were the British, and the others were the minutemen.

Big Mike and his gang tried to reply to the constant fire; one of their balls, thrown by Slim Conner, took Tom square on the nose as he incautiously poked his head above the fence. A yell of triumph arose from Slim and Co.

“Great Scott!” appealed Tom, ducking hastily, and touching his finger-tips gingerly to the wound.

“Let’s see, Tom,” said Hal.

Tom uncovered his nose. The left side of it was skinned!

“They’re putting rocks in their snowballs!” declared Ned. “Isn’t that just dirty mean, though!”

Tom, while somewhat disfigured, was by no means disabled, and now and then feeling of his nose, continued the pursuit.

Peppered from every quarter, the South Beauforters began to waver, and showed a tendency to hop, skip and jump along, and to turn corners on the double quick. Presently, as by common consent, all broke into a run, and the retreat became a flight.

The “soakers” were waxing altogether too deadly.

Up the middle of the street, elbows raised to protect heads, bolted the South Beaufort gang, and after them, into the open, scuttled their attackers, whooping like Indians. Even Bob mustered courage to wave his tail, and bark.

From the outset the three boys, and Ned in particular, had selected Big Mike as their especial target. Had “soakers” been bullets they would have landed him long before; but the most they had done was to make him curse them heartily when some telling ball reached the mark. And still he had the clipper in tow.

“Drop that sled, you thief!” Ned kept calling, fiercely.

“Thief! Robber!” chimed in Ned’s companions.

Closer the attackers drew their lines. Matters looked promising for a general fight. The boys’ blood was up, and Ned was bound to get that sled. “Soakers” seemed not to do it, and there was nothing left but fists.

At this crisis, just as the pursuers were closing in on the pursued, and “soakers” at short range were on the point of giving way, unless something unexpected occurred, to fisticuffs—then the unexpected did occur!

Out of a cross-street whirled an empty lumber wagon, mounted on runners and whisked behind two horses, from the South Beaufort mills. The South Beauforters hailed it as sent by a special providence.

At any rate, the rescue was planned exactly right, and in nick of time.

Just as the bob turned into their path, they met it. Without causing it to slacken its speed, and without themselves slackening, into the high box they tumbled, Patsy, and the Conners, and Red Sullivan, and all—all except Big Mike!

Gleefully looking behind, to place thumb on nose and wiggle his fingers at Ned and crowd, he proved his own undoing. He slipped, and sprawled—and away without him was borne his gang, with the driver, a South Beauforter, laying lash on steeds.

But Big Mike did not sprawl long. Like a cat he sprang to his feet, and dropping the clipper now sought only to save himself from his deserts.

Ned, who was fleeter than the others, was the nearest to him. On clumped Big Mike, spurred by fear, in the trail of the faithless bob. After him struggled Ned, spurred by wrath and only a few yards from his heels. Behind them strung out the other pursuers.

Of the two, hare and hound, the latter, Ned, because he had been scaling so many fences and making so many circuits, was the more exhausted. However, he grimly hung on, and at the last Fortune rewarded him.

The first limits of South Beaufort had been reached; Big Mike was on familiar ground. The hare had been run to its hole. With a sudden movement Big Mike changed his course at right angles, and darted for a friendly alley.

Ned dug his heel into the slush, and drew back his arm, at the same time. Awaiting opportunity, during all the chase he had been carrying a pet “soaker.” It had grown harder and harder, and now opportunity bade “Ready!” Just as Big Mike, presenting the broadside of his face, entered the alley, Ned, without halting, sped his snowball. The “soaker,” whizzing like a grape-shot, burst with an icy “smack” on Big Mike’s ear!

“Ow-w-w-w!” screeched Big Mike, the last bit of spunk taken out of him by that sudden blow.

Ned, puffing, turned and rejoined his comrades, to receive congratulations—and his clipper.

The next Monday it was rumored at school, on good authority, that Big Mike had an ear on him looking like an over-ripe pear. Ned, hearing, was pleased. He felt that his black eye had been avenged.