s, which in places had drifted
across the rows of rails. Along the street, each smoke-tinged roof and
window ledge had a share of the rapidly deepening coverlet which sped
from the leaden clouds to mask the gray, unlovely earth.

John drew on his knickerbockers hurriedly. No time for a peep at one of
his new books now. Not only was the snow a thing of beauty, but it
offered certain revenue if he and Bill appeared with their shovels
before competition became too keen. So he appeared in the dining-room
with surprising promptness.

"Sick, John?" asked his mother with gentle sarcasm, as he sat down to
breakfast.

He shook his head as he gulped down spoonful after spoonful of the
steaming oatmeal. Now and then he glanced out of the window at the walks
and porches of the street. They were still untouched, but there was need
of haste.

"Never mind the potatoes, Mother," he said, as he hurried to the coat
closet for his wraps. "I'm going shovelling."

He ran down into the basement and was out and down the street with the
wooden shovel over his shoulder before Mrs. Fletcher realized that he
had escaped. She hailed him back.

"How about our walk, son?" she asked, as she stood in the doorway.

He shook his head in protest. "I don't get paid for that. Bill and I'll
do it when we get through."

"Not much!" There was decision in his mother's tones. "That means it
won't be cleaned before noon."

"Aw-w-w, Mother!"

The door closed and put a stop to further parleying. He stood by the
lamppost, undecided as to which course to pursue. Should he walk boldly
off and take the consequences, or was discretion the better part of
valor after all? Still, when a fellow's mother wanted something done, it
was useless to try to evade the task, and he was just beginning to
realize it.

He set to work. Before long the cheerful scraping of the wooden shovel
against the pavement restored his good humor. His face became flushed,
and he stopped a moment to pull his stocking cap back from his hot
forehead, for the exercise was making his blood circulate rapidly. The
long walk which led to the back door could be skipped, and the porch
railings left snow-capped as they were, for his aim was to fulfill the
barest letter of his orders before Mrs. Fletcher looked out of the
window.

Five minutes later, he knocked the snow from his shovel, and sneaked up
the street, slipping now and then as his feet struck concealed ice on
the walk, and once he f