When Pen told his grandfather that a snowball fight had been decided upon as the method of settling the controversy between the Hilltops and the Riverbeds, and that Miss Grey had given her permission to that effect, the old gentleman chuckled gleefully.

“A very wise young woman,” he said; “very wise indeed. When will the sanguinary conflict take place?”

“Why,” replied Pen, “the first day the snow melts good.”

“I see. I suppose you will lead the forces of Chestnut Hill?”

“I expect to; yes, sir.”

“And our young friend, Master Sands, will marshal the troops of the Valley?”

“Yes, sir; I suppose so.”

“You will have to look out for that young man, Penfield. He strikes me as being very much of a strategist.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Don’t be over-confident. Over-confidence has lost many a battle.”

“Well, we’ll lick ’em anyway. We’ve got to.”

“That’s the proper spirit. Determination, persistence, bravery, hard-fighting Hush! Here comes your aunt Millicent.”

Colonel Butler was as bold as a lion in the presence of every one save his daughter. Against her determination his resolution melted like April snow. She loved him devotedly, she cared for him tenderly, but she ruled him with a rod of iron. In only one matter did his stubborn will hold out effectually against hers. No persuasion, no demand on her part, could induce him to change his attitude towards Pen’s mother. He chose to consider his daughter-in-law absolutely and permanently outside of his family, and outside of his consideration, and there the matter had rested for a decade, and was likely to rest so long as he drew breath.

That night, after Pen had retired to his room, there came a gentle knock at his open door. His grandfather stood there, holding in his hand a small volume of Upton’s military tactics which he had used in the Civil War.

“I thought this book might be of some service to you, Penfield,” he explained. “It will give you a good idea of the proper methods to be used in handling large or small bodies of troops.”

“Thank you, grandfather,” said Pen, taking the book. “I’ll study it. I’m sure it’ll help me.”

“Nevertheless,” continued the colonel, “there must be courage and persistency as well as tactics, if battles are to be won. You understand?”

“Yes, grandfather.”

The old man turned away, but turned back again.

“A Penfield,” he said, “when you are absent from your room will you kindly have the book in such a locality that your Aunt Millicent will not readily discover it?”

“Yes, grandfather.”

The winter weather at Chestnut Hill was not favorable for war. The mercury lingered in the neighborhood of zero day after day. Snow fell, drifted, settled; but did not melt. It was plain that ammunition could not be made of such material. So the battle was delayed. But the opposing forces nevertheless utilized the time. There were secret drills. There were open discussions. Plans of campaign were regularly adopted, and as regularly discarded. Yet both sides were constantly ready.

A strange result of the situation was that there had not been better feeling between the factions for many months. Good-natured boasts there were, indeed. But of malice, meanness, open resentment, there was nothing. Every one was willing to waive opportunities for skirmishing, in anticipation of the one big battle.

It was well along in February before the weather moderated. Then, one night, it grew warm. The next morning gray fog lay over all the snow-fields. Rivulets of water ran in the gutters, and little pools formed in low places everywhere. War time had at last come. Evidently nature intended this to be the battle day. It was Saturday and there was no session of the school.

The commander of the Hilltops called his forces together early, and a plan of battle was definitely formed. Messengers, carrying a flag of truce, communicated with the Riverbeds, and it was agreed that the fight should take place that afternoon on the vacant plot in the rear of the school building. It was thought best by the Hilltops, however, to reconnoiter in force, and to prepare the field for the conflict. So, sixteen strong, they went forth to the place selected for the fray. They saw nothing of the enemy; the lot was still vacant. They began immediately to throw up breast-works. They rolled huge snowballs down the slightly sloping ground to the spot selected for a fort. These snowballs were so big that, by the time they reached their destination, it took at least a half dozen boys to put each one into place. They squared them up, and laid them carefully in a curved line ten blocks long and three blocks high, with the requisite embrasures. Then they prepared their ammunition. They made snowballs by the score, and piled them in convenient heaps inside the barricade. By the time this work was finished it was noon. Then, leaving a sufficient force to guard the fortifications, the remainder of the troops sallied forth to luncheon, among them the leader of the Hilltops. At the luncheon table Pen took advantage of the temporary absence of his aunt to inform his grandfather, in a stage-whisper, that the long anticipated fight was scheduled for that afternoon.

“And,” he added, “we’ve got the biggest snow fort you ever saw, and dead loads of snowballs inside.”

The colonel smiled and his eyes twinkled.

“Good!” he whispered back. “Smite them hip and thigh. Hold the fort! ‘Stand: the ground’s your own, my braves!’”

“We’re ready for anything.”

“Bravo! Beware of the enemy’s strategy, and fight hard. Fight as if ah! your Aunt Millicent’s coming.”

At one o’clock the first division returned and relieved the garrison; and at two every soldier was back and in his place. The breast-works were strengthened, more ammunition was made, and heaps of raw material for making still more were conveniently placed. But the enemy did not put in an appearance. A half hour went by, and another half hour, and the head of the first hostile soldier was yet to be seen approaching above the crest of the hill. Crowds of small boys, non-combatants, were lined up against the school-house, awaiting, with anxiety and awe, the coming battle. Out in the road a group of girls, partisans of the Hilltops, was assembled to cheer their friends on to victory. Men, passing by on foot and with teams, stopped to inquire concerning the war-like preparations, and some of them, on whose hands it may be that time was hanging heavily, stood around awaiting the outbreak of hostilities.

Still the enemy was nowhere in sight. A squad, under command of Lieutenant Cuddeback, was sent out to the road to reconnoiter. They returned and reported that they had been to the brow of the hill, but had failed to discover any hostile troops. Was it possible that the Riverbeds had weakened, backed out, decided, like the cowards that they were, not to fight, after all? It was in the midst of an animated discussion over this possibility that the defenders of the fort were startled by piercing yells from the neighborhood of the stone fence that bounded the school-house lot in the rear. Looking in that direction they were thunderstruck to see the enemy’s soldiers pouring over the wall and advancing vigorously toward them. With rare strategy the Riverbeds, instead of approaching by the front, had come up the hill on the back road, crept along under cover of barns and fences until the school-house lot was reached, and now, with terrific shouts, were crossing the stone-wall to hurl themselves impetuously on the foe.

For a moment consternation reigned within the fort. The surprise was overwhelming. Pen was the first one, as he should have been, to recover his wits. He remembered his grandfather’s warning against the enemy’s strategy.

“It’s a trick!” he shouted. “Don’t let ’em scare you! Load up and at ’em!”

Every boy seized his complement of snowballs, and, led by their captain, the Hilltops started out, on double-quick, to meet the enemy.

The next moment the air was filled with flying missiles. They were fired at close range, and few, from either side, failed to find their mark.

The battle was swift and fierce. An onslaught from the Riverbeds’ left, drove the right wing of the Hilltops back into the shadow of the fort. But the center held its ground and fought furiously. Then the broken right wing, supplied with fresh ammunition from the reserve piles, rallied, forced the invaders back, turned their flank, and fell on them from the rear. The Riverbeds, with ammunition all but exhausted, were hard beset. They fought bravely and persistently but they could not stand up before the terrific rain of missiles that was poured in on them. They yielded, they retreated, but they went with their faces to the foe. There was only one avenue of escape, and that was down by the side of the school-house to the public road. It was inch by inch that they withdrew. No army ever beat a more stubborn or masterly retreat. In the face of certain defeat, at scarcely arm’s length from their shouting and exultant foe, they fought like heroes.

Pen Butler was in the thickest and hottest of the fray. He urged his troops to the assault, and was not afraid to lead them. The militant blood of his ancestors burned in his veins, and, if truth must be told, it trickled in little streams down his face from a battered nose and a cut lip received at a close quarter’s struggle with the enemy.

The small boys by the school-house, seeing the line of battle approaching them, beat a retreat to a less hazardous position. The girls in the road clung to each other and looked on, fascinated and awe-stricken at the furious fight, forgetting to wave a single handkerchief, or emit a single cheer. The men on the side-path clapped their hands and yelled encouragement to one or other of the contending forces, in accordance with their sympathies.

The first of the retreating troops, still contesting stubbornly the foe’s advance, reached the corner of the school-house nearest the public road. By some chance the entrance door of the building was ajar. A soldier’s quick eye discovered it. Here was shelter, protection, a chance to recuperate and reform. He shouted the good news to his comrades, pushed the door open and entered. By twos and threes, and then in larger groups, they followed him until the very last man of them was safe inside, and the door was slammed shut and locked in the faces of the foe. Under the impetus of the charge the victorious troops broke against the barrier, but it held firm. That it did so hold was one of the providential occurrences of the day. So, at last, the Hilltops were foiled and baffled. Their victory was not complete. Pen stood on the top step at the entrance, his face smeared with blood, and angrily declared his determination, by one means or another, to hunt the enemy out from their place of shelter, and drive them down the hill into their own riverbed, where they belonged. But, in spite of his extravagant declaration, nothing could be done without a breach of the law. Doors and windows must not be broken. Temporarily, at least, the enemy was safe.

After a consultation among the Hilltops it was decided to take up a position across the road from the school-house, and await the emergence of the foe. But the foe appeared to be in no haste to emerge. It was warm inside. They were safe from attack. They could take their ease and wait. And they did. The minutes passed. A half hour went by. A drizzling rain had set in, and the young soldiers at the roadside were getting uncomfortably wet. The small boys, who had looked on, departed by twos and threes. The girls, after cheering the heroes of the fight, also sought shelter. The men, who had been interested spectators while the battle was on, drifted away. It isn’t encouraging to stand out in the rain, doing nothing but stamping wet feet, and wait for a beaten foe to come out. Enthusiasm for a cause is apt to wane when one has to stand, shivering, in rain-soaked clothes, and wait for something to occur. And enthusiasm did wane. A majority of the boys wanted to call it a victory and go home. But Pen would not listen to such a proposal.

“They’ve run into the school-house,” he said, “like whipped dogs, and locked the door; and now, if we go home, they’ll come out and boast that we were afraid to meet ’em again. They’ll say that we slunk away before the fight was half over. I won’t let ’em say that. I’ll stay here all night but what I’ll give ’em the final drubbing.”

But his comrades were not equally determined. The war spirit seemed to have died out in their breasts, and, try as he would, Pen was not able to restore it.

Yet, even as he argued, the school-house door opened and the besieged army marched forth. They marched forth, indeed, but this time they had an American flag at the head of their column. It was carried by, and folded and draped around the body of, Alexander Sands. It was the flag that Colonel Butler had given to the school. Whose idea it was to use it thus has never been disclosed. But surely no more effective means could have been adopted to cover an orderly retreat. The Hilltop forces stared at the spectacle in amazement and stood silent in their tracks. Pen was the first to recover his senses. If he had been angry when the enemy came upon them unawares from the stone-wall, he was furious now.

“It’s another trick!” he cried, “a mean, contemptible trick! They think the flag’ll save ’em but it won’t! Come on! We’ll show ’em!”

He started toward the advancing column, firing his first snowball as he went; a snowball that flattened and spattered against the flag-covered breast of Aleck Sands. But his soldiers did not follow him. No leader, however magnetic, could have induced them to assault a body of troops marching under the protecting folds of the American flag. They revered the colors, and they stood fast in their places. Pen leaped the ditch, and, finding himself alone, stopped to look back.

“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Are you all afraid?”

“It’s the flag,” answered Elmer Cuddeback, “and I won’t fight anybody that carries it.”

“Nor I,” said Jimmie Morrissey.

“Nor I;” “Nor I,” echoed one after another.

Then, indeed, Pen’s temper went to fever heat. He faced his own troops and denounced them.

“Traitors!” he yelled. “Cowards! every one of you! To be scared by a mere piece of bunting! Babies! Go home and have your mothers put you to bed! I’ll fight ’em single-handed!”

He was as good as his word. He plunged toward the head of the column, which had already reached the middle of the public road.

“Don’t you dare to touch the flag!” cried Aleck.

“And don’t you dare to tell me what I shall not touch,” retorted Pen. “Drop it, or I’ll tear it off of you.”

But Aleck only drew the folds more tightly about him and braced himself for the onset. He clutched the staff with one hand; and the other hand, duly clenched, he thrust into his adversary’s face. For a moment Pen was staggered by the blow, then he gathered himself together and leaped upon his opponent. The fight was on: fast and furious. The followers of each leader, appalled at the fierceness of the combat, stood as though frozen in their places. The flag, clutched by both fighters, was in danger of being torn from end to end. Then came the clinch. Gripping, writhing, twisting, tangled in the colors, the lithe young bodies wavered to their fall. And when they fell the flag fell with them, into the grime and slush of the road. In an instant Pen was on his feet again, but Aleck did not rise. He pulled himself slowly to his elbow and looked around him as though half-dazed.

That Pen was the victor there was no doubt. His face streaked with blood and distorted with passion, he stood there and glared triumphantly on friend and foe alike. That he was standing on the flag mattered little to him in that moment. He was like one crazed. Some one shouted to him:

“Get off the flag! You’re standing on it!”

“What’s that to you?” he yelled back. “I’ll stand where I like!”

“It’s the flag of your country. Get off of it!”

“What do I care for my country or for you. I’ve won this fight, single-handed, in spite of any flag, or any country, or any coward here, and I’ll stand where I choose!”

He stood fast in his place and glared defiantly about him, and in all the company there was not one who dared approach him.

But it was only for a moment. Some impulse moved him to look down. Under his heels the white stars on their blue field were being ground into the mire. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over him, a sense of horror at his own conduct. His arms fell to his sides. His face paled till the blood splashes on it stood out startlingly distinct. He moved slowly and carefully backward till the folds of the banner were no longer under his feet. He cast one fleeting glance at his worsted adversary who was still half-lying, half-sitting, with the flag under his elbows, then, his passion quenched, shame and remorse over his unpatriotic conduct filling his heart, without another word he turned his back on his companions, thrust his bleeding hands into his pockets, and started up the road, toward home; his one thought being to leave as quickly and quietly as possible the scene of his disgrace. No one followed him, no one called after him; he went alone. He was hatless and ragged. His rain-soaked garments clung to him with an indescribable chill. The fire of his anger had burned itself out, and had left in its place the ashes of despondency and despair. Yet, even in that hour of depression and self-accusation, he did not dream of the far-reaching consequences of this one unpremeditated act of inexcusable folly of which he had just been guilty. He bent down and gathered some wet snow into his hands and bathed his face, and sopped it half dry with his handkerchief, already soaked. Then, not caring, in his condition, to show himself on the main street of the village, he crossed over to the lane that skirted the out-lots, and went thence by a circuitous and little traveled route, to Bannerhall.

In the meantime, back in the road by the school-house, Aleck Sands had picked himself up, still a little dazed, but not seriously hurt, and soldiers who had recently faced each other in battle came with unanimity to the rescue of the flag. Hilltops and Riverbeds alike, all differences and enmities forgotten in this new crisis, they joined in gathering up the wet and muddy folds, and in bearing them to the warmth and shelter of the school-house. Here they washed out the stains, and stretched the banner out to dry, and at dusk, exhausted and sobered by the events of the day, with serious faces and apprehensive hearts, they went to their several homes.