"Missis says, 'hurry up,'" she cautioned them. Silvey picked up his shovel and began to make the snow fly industriously. Presently the fit of ardor wore off, and he stared thoughtfully at the long stretch of walk which still remained between the front porch and the back yard. "How much did I say we'd do this for?" he asked. "Quarter," said John, as he leaned on his shovel handle. "Wished I'd made it thirty-five cents!" Foot by foot, they cleared a path well around by the side of the house. The milkman, the butcher, and the gas inspector had each left heavy footmarks which were difficult to remove and made progress slow. At the rear steps, a huge drift met their gaze, and Silvey stretched his aching arms. "What'd we say we'd do this for?" he asked again. "Quarter." "Wished I'd said _half a dollar_. There's a walk on the other side, too." No skylarking now. Their muscles ached too much from the exercise to waste their energy in other channels. When the cut through the drift had been made, and the back porch and basement walk freed of the covering, Bill leaned his shovel against a clothes-line post, and surveyed the result of their labors malevolently. "Next time we do this, John," he snapped emphatically, "we'll charge a whole dollar!" But the mischief had been done. By the time they had been paid the well-earned quarter, not a house near them offered prospect of employment. And at the far end of the street, the "Jeffersons" were making a last reconnoissance before deserting the neighborhood for more fruitful fields of labor. "Now see what you did when you shoved me into the snow," said John ruefully. "Well, you didn't have to wash my face," retorted Bill. Secretly he was not sorry that the work was at an end. "Get your new sled and we'll go hitching. Beat you over to our street." They dashed up the nearest private walk into a residential back yard, and dropped their shovels over the back fence. John wedged one foot between a telegraph pole and a picket, and drew himself up. "Come on, Sil." Silvey braced himself for the spring. A rear window in the house creaked open and a woman's head appeared. "What are you boys doing?" called the shrill voice. They dropped over into the other yard, and John started to run. "She's in curl papers," said Bill. "She won't chase us. Let's fix her." "I'll call the police if you go through again," she persisted as the boys filled their hands with snow. John gave a few finishing pats to his missile. "How'd you like to have her for a mother?" he asked his chum, as he drew his arm back for the assault. A projectile broke against the window sash and showered snow fragments upon the untidy hair. A second went a serene way through the opening and dissolved in a blot of hissing water on the kitchen stove. The frame slammed to with a violence which threatened destruction to the window glass, and John grabbed his shovel with an exultant yell. "Now run like the dickens!"