there are plenty of other pieces,” said Jimmy, as he picked one up and started for Herb.

Herb started to run, but slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk.

“You know what the Good Book says,” chaffed Joe. “The wicked stand on slippery places.”

“Yes, I see they do,” replied Herb, as quick as a flash, looking up at him. “But I can’t.”

The laugh was on Joe, and Herb felt so good over the retort that he did not mind the fall, though it had jarred him considerably. He scrambled to his feet and brushed off his clothes, while Jimmy, feeling that his comrade had been punished enough, magnanimously threw away the piece of ice that was to have been the instrument of his vengeance.

“The reason why I wanted you fellows to be sure to be on hand to-night,” resumed Bob, as they walked along, “was that I saw in the program of the Newark station in the newspaper this morning that Larry Bartlett was down for an entirely new stunt. You know what a hit he made with his imitations of birds.”

“He sure did,” agreed Joe. “To my mind he had it all over the birds themselves. I never got tired listening to him.”

“He certainly was a dabster at it,” chimed in Jimmy.

“Now he’s going in to imitate animals,” explained Bob. “I understand that he’s been haunting the Zoo for weeks in every minute of his spare time studying the bears and lions and tigers and elephants and snakes, and getting their roars and growls and trumpeting and hisses down to a fine point. I bet he’ll be a riot when he gives them to us over the radio.”

“He sure will,” assented Herb. “He’s got the natural gift in the first place, and then he practices and practices until he’s got everything down to perfection.”

“He’s a natural entertainer,” affirmed Bob. “I tell you, fellows, we never did a better day’s work than when we got Larry that job at the sending station. Not only was it a good thing for Larry himself when he was down and out, but think of the pleasure he’s been able to give to hundreds of thousands of people. I’ll bet there’s no feature on the program that is waited for more eagerly than his.”

By this time the boys had reached the business portion of the town and the short spring day was drawing to a close. Already lights were beginning to twinkle in the stores that lined both sides of the street.

“Getting near supper time,” remarked Bob. “Guess we’d better be getting along home. Don’t forget to come—Gee whiz!”

The ejaculation was wrung from him by a snowball that hit him squarely in the breast, staggering him for a moment.

Bang! and another snowball found a target in Joe. It struck his shoulder and spattered all over his face and neck.

“That felt as though it came from a gun!” he exclaimed. “It’s the hardest slam I ever got.”

“Who did it?” demanded Bob, peering about him in the gathering darkness.

Halfway up the block they saw a group of dark figures darting into an alleyway.

“It’s Buck Looker and his crowd!” cried Jimmy. “I saw them when they ran under that arc light.”

“Just like that crowd to take us unawares,” said Bob. “But if they’re looking for a tussle we can accommodate them. Get busy, fellows, and let them have something in return for these two sockdolagers.”

They hastily gathered up several snowballs apiece, which were easily made because the snow was soft and packed readily, and ran toward the alleyway just in time to see Buck and his crowd emerging from their hiding place.

There was a spirited battle for a few minutes, each side making and receiving some smashing hits. Buck’s gang had the advantage in that they had a large number of missiles already prepared, and even in the excitement of the fight the radio boys noticed how unusually hard they were.

“Must have been soaking them in water until they froze,” grunted Jimmy, as one of them caught him close to the neck and made him wince.

As soon as their extra ammunition was exhausted and the contending forces in this respect were placed more on a footing of equality, Buck and his cronies began to give ground before the better aim and greater determination of Bob and his comrades.

“Give it to them, fellows!” shouted Bob, as the retreat of their opponents was rapidly becoming a rout.

At the moment he called out, the progress of the fight had brought the radio boys directly in front of the windows of one of the largest drygoods stores in the town.

In the light that came from the windows Bob saw a snowball coming directly for his head. He dodged, and——

Crash! There was the sound of splintering glass, and the snowy missile whizzed through the plate glass window!

There was a moment of stupor and paralysis as the meaning of the crash dawned upon the radio boys.

Buck and his crowd had vanished and were footing it up the fast-darkening street at the top of their speed.

The first impulse of the radio boys was to follow their example. They knew that none of them was responsible for the disaster, and they were of no mind to be sacrificed on behalf of the gang that had attacked them. And they knew that in affairs of that kind the ones on the ground were apt to suffer the more severely.

They actually started to run away, but had got only a few feet from the scene of the smash when Bob, who had been thinking quickly, called a halt.

“None of this stuff for us, fellows,” he declared. “We’ve got to face the music. I’m not going to have a hunted feeling, even if we succeeded in getting away. We know we didn’t do it and we’ll tell the plain truth. If that doesn’t serve, why so much the worse for us. But at any rate we won’t be despising ourselves as cowards.”

As usual, his comrades accorded him the leadership and fell in with his plan, although it was not without many misgivings that they awaited the coming of the angry proprietor of the place, who had already started in pursuit of them, accompanied by many others who had been attracted by the crash and whose numbers were being rapidly augmented.

“Here are the fellows that smashed my window!” cried Mr. Larsen, the proprietor of the drygoods store, rushing up to them and shaking his fist in their faces. “Where are the police?” he shouted, looking around him. “I’ll have them arrested for malicious damage.”

And while he faced them, gesticulating wildly, his face purple with anger and excitement, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell briefly who the radio boys are and what had been their adventures before the time this story opens.

The acknowledged leader of the boys was Bob Layton, son of a prosperous chemist of Clintonia, in which town Bob had been born and brought up. Mr. Layton was a respected citizen of the town and foremost in its civic activities. Clintonia was a thriving little city of about ten thousand population, situated on the Shagary River, about seventy-five miles from the city of New York.

Bob at the beginning of this story was about sixteen years old, tall and stalwart and a clean-cut specimen of upstanding American youth. He was of rather dark complexion and had a pair of eyes that looked straight at one. Those eyes were usually merry, but could flash with indignation when circumstances required it. He was never on the lookout for trouble, but was always ready