It was a bright February morning. The sun was warm, so that the piles of snow in the streets were in a perfect condition for snow-balling, much to the satisfaction of a medium-sized boy of thirteen who had just come out of the house and was standing on his doorsteps, drawing on his mittens. His name was Jack Hall, and he wore a Scotch cap, a reefer, and a pair of rubber boots. As soon as his mittens were on he cleared the last two steps with a jump, and, plunging his hands into the nearest snow-bank, stood patting a ball into shape while he looked around. The street on which Jack’s house stood was a long and tolerably steep slope. There were houses on both sides. He lived at the top, near t…
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