Perkins was always worse when Jim wasn't around.

"Go on!" exclaimed his mother.

Ben walked out slowly. The boys were down the street. If they would only go away. He pa.s.sed the Whitneys and halted. He could rescue hounded cats and tormented dogs, and once had saved a little child from being run over. But to fight--in cold blood!

"Oh, here comes my Lady Jane!" sang out some one.

"She's quite too young-- To be ruled by your false, flattering tongue."

"Sissy, wouldn't your mother mend your coat? Keep out of the way of the ragman!"

Perkins was balancing himself on one foot on the curbstone.

"Come on, Macduff!" he cried tragically.

Macduff came on with a quick step. Before the boys could think he strode up to Perkins and with a well-directed blow landed him in the sloppy debris of snow and mud, where the children had been making a pond. And before he could recover Ben was upon him, roused to his utmost. The boys were nearly of a size. They rolled over and over amid the plaudits of their companions, and Ben, who hated dirt and mud and all untidiness, didn't mind now. He kept his face pretty well out of the way, and presently sat on his adversary and held one hand, grasping at the other.

The boys cheered. A fight was a fight, if it was between the best friends you had.

"Beg," said Ben.

"I'll see you in Guinea first!"

Ben sat still. The kicks were futile. With such a heavy weight breathing was a difficult matter.

"You--you--if you'd said fight I'd a-known----" and Perkins gasped.

"Oh, let up, Ben. You've licked him! We didn't think 'twas in you.

Come--fair play."

"There's a good deal in me," cried Ben st.u.r.dily. "And I'm going to sit here all night till Perkins begs. I've a good seat. You boys keep out.

'Tisn't your fight. And you all know I hate fighting. It may do for wild animals in a jungle."

Ben's lip was swelling a little. A tooth had cut into it. But his eyes were clear and sparkling and his whole face was resolute. Perkins'

attempts at freeing his hands grew more feeble.

"Boys, can't you help a fellow?"

"'Twas a fair thing, Perk. You may as well own up beat. Come, no snivelling."

Quite a crowd was gathering. There was no policeman to interfere.

Perkins made a reluctant concession. Ben sprang up and was off like a shot. His mother met him at the door.

"Go up-stairs and put on your best clothes, Ben," she said, "and take those down to the barn." She knew he had come off victor.

"I s'pose I'd had to do it some time," Ben thought to himself. "Mother's awful s.p.u.n.ky when she's roused. I hope I won't have to go on and lick the whole crew! I just hate that kind of work."

As he came down his mother kissed him on the white forehead, but neither said a word.

When he went in to see Mr. Theodore that evening he told him the story.

It was queer, but he would not have admitted to any one else his mother's threat. Mr. Theodore laughed and said boys generally had to make their own mark in that fashion. Then he thought they would try a game of chess, as Ben knew all the moves.

Jim was surprised and delighted to hear the story the next day. He nodded his head with an air of satisfaction.

"Ben's awful strong," he said. "He could thrash any boy of his size. But he isn't spoiling for a fight."

A few days later there came a real snowstorm of a day and a night. Jim sprung the old joke on Hanny "that they were all snowed up, and the snow was over the tops of the houses." She ran to the window in her night-dress to see. Oh, how beautiful it was! The red chimneys grew up out of the white fleece, the windows were hooded, the trees and bushes were long wands of soft whiteness, the clothes-line posts wore pointed caps.

"Don't stand there in the cold," said Margaret.

They all turned out to shovel snow. The areas were full. The sidewalks all along were being cleared, and it made a curious white wall in the street. Mr. Underhill insisted that the boys should level theirs. Some wagons tried to get through and made an odd, m.u.f.fled sound. Then there was the joyful jingle of bells. The sun came out setting the world in a vivid sparkle, while the sky grew as blue as June.

Not to have snow for Christmas would have spoiled the fun and been a bad sign. People really did believe "a green Christmas would make a fat graveyard." It was so much better in the country to have the grain and meadows covered with the nice warm mantle, for it was warm to them.

Father Underhill took the little girl to school, for all the walks were not cleared. Men and boys were going around with shovels on their shoulders, offering their services.

"I could earn a lot of money if I didn't have to go to school to-day,"

said Jim, with a longing look at the piles of snow. "If it only _was_ Sat.u.r.day!"

But there was no end of fun at school. The boys began two snow-forts, and the s...o...b..lling was something tremendous. The air was crisp and cold, and it gave everybody red cheeks.

Before night the stage sleighs were running, for the omnibuses really couldn't get along. Steve came home early to take the boys and Hanny out. Hanny still wore the red cloak and a pretty red hood and looked like a little fairy.

They went over to the Bowery. You can hardly imagine the gay sight it was. Everything that could be put on runners was there, from the dainty cutter to the lumbering grocery box wagon. And oh, the bells on the frosty air! It was enough to inspire a hundred poets.

There were four horses to the long sleigh. Steve found a seat and took the little girl on his lap, covering her with an extra shawl. The boys dropped down on their knees in the straw. It was a great jam, but everybody was jolly and full of good-natured fun. Now and then a youngster threw a s...o...b..ll that made a shower of snow in the sleigh, but the pa.s.sengers shook it off laughingly.

They went down to the Battery and just walked across. Castle Garden was a great white mound. Brooklyn looked vague and ghostly. The shipping was huddled in the piers with fleecy rigging, and only a few brave vessels were breasting the river, bluer still than the sky. And here there was such a splendid turnout it looked like a pageant.

They came up East Broadway. The street lamps were just being lighted.

They turned up Columbia Street and Avenue D, and stopped when they came to Houston Street. A man on the corner was selling hot waffles as fast as half a dozen men could bake them, and a colored woman had a stand of hot coffee that scented up the air with its fragrance.

They had to walk up home, but Steve carried Hanny over all the crossings. It was a regular carnival. The children decided snow in New York was ever so much more fun than snow in the country.

But after a few days they settled to it as a regular thing, though the sleighs were flying about in their tireless fashion, making the air musical with bells. And Christmas was coming.

It really _was_ Christmas then. Not to have hung up your stocking would have been an insult to the sweetest, merriest, wisest, tenderest little man in the world. There were some fireplaces left for him to come down, and he was on hand promptly.

And such appetizing smells as lurked in every corner of the house! Fruit cake, crullers and doughnuts, and mince pies! Everybody was busy from morning till night. When Hanny went to the kitchen some one said, "Run up-stairs, child, you'll be in the way here," and Margaret would hustle something in her ap.r.o.n and say, "Run down-stairs, Hanny dear," until it seemed as if there was no place for her.

The Dean children were busy, too. But Nora Whitney didn't seem to have anything to do but nurse dear Old Gray and read fairy stories. Delia told them Ophelia was to be married Christmas morning, and "they were going over to _his_ folks in Jersey to spend a week."

"But it won't make a bit of difference," Delia announced. "Frank has a steady beau now and they'll take the parlor. And then, I suppose, it'll be my turn. I shall just hate to be grown up and have long skirts on and do up my hair, and be so fussy about everything. When I think of that I wish I was a boy."

The little girl wondered if Margaret would get married next Christmas.

Her gowns were quite long now, and she did have a grown-up air. It seemed years since last Christmas. So many things had happened.

The cousins were to come down from Tarrytown and make a visit, and Aunt Patience and Aunt Nancy were to come up from Henry Street for the Christmas dinner. If they only _could_ bring the cat!