THE ICY HILL

Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon, going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth; the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result, Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.

Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its swaddling clothes.

His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, and they were clad in a collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would have made a ragman frown.

"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"

"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."

"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting party till to-morrow."

"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's nail on a brace and try it."

"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"

"Sure!"

"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and—"

"—and what?"

"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called, as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door again."

"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."

"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.

Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed above the snug fur lap-robe.

"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my friends coasting."

"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little boys.

"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"

They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.

"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other. Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat, sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with us, Peter?"

"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree and tucked the fur cover more snugly about his little brother. "Say, I—I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."

"Come ahead!"

By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.

A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot. The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness; so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.

"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.

"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from convincing.

Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail. Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again, swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given anything in the world to have recalled that sound.

They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others, pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.

"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long sweep."

"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing to take a chance. You Scouts—" But he thought better of it, and left the accusation unsaid.

During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top, when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward position.

"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this side of the railroad track, where the road branches?"

"Of course."

"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see, the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's dangerous."

"I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly.

"All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."

So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced his feet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-over boy, not the same one this time, pushed them off.

"Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear for coasters!"

Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spun into a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon on runners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly. There was a chance—just a bare, scant chance—that he might steer by on the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only a foot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling a collision might mean serious accident.

His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of the road, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decision instantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off its course and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling its human load into the soft mattress of snow.

Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up, righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or three of them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured any comment.

"A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he said slowly. "Your—friend here could."

Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, he had been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other, for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.

They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled. Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering, the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove worn by the coasters.

For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment. Then, all at once, three of them spoke.

"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and—"

"—and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks there—"

"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It—Cree, it's my kid brother!"

It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that. Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.

Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung himself and sled headlong upon the slide.

Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily from the running start, sped along side by side, with Peter Barrett's on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's on the left. Far ahead now—hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire—the runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down Old Forty Five.

Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them together.

At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.

The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder. Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast every shred of his skill.

He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the course by digging a toe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer at the way he steered.

But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He might catch it yet; might—no, must!

Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them; then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a little, but his fingers did not relax.

He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were a little farther away!

Mingled with the scratch-scratch of the iron-shod runners came another sound,—loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was. Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then, like a flash, came the explanation.

It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad track. If the child on the sled crashed into it—

In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.

He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track. And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would reach it together.

"I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "I must!"

The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Already his eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects ahead were blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too, he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time. A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he had done with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that he could never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.

But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'" he told himself, "'is brave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"

Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trail ahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightened cry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he could not believe the distance between them was more than the reach of his arm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feet still separated them.

The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroad track. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet. But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would be effectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; he himself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he would strike the very prong of the cow-catcher.

"Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerked back to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and the creek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.

As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind Peter Barrett's shout.

"Don't!" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't—"

The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell, the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakes hard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroy him.

He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second click of the far rail—waited—waited—waited. Would it never come? Then—snap!—he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was over safely.

A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his very side.

He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.

The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led. But there was no room to spare. Before they were around, they had climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.

Afterward—some minutes afterward—when the locked sleds had ground to a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground, with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but Bonfire was too exhausted to speak.

"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"

It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I—I did a lot of thinking back there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I—I guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought you were—well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people. But this morning—" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind, and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off—Do you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly. I—Well, it—it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they turned toward his little brother.

"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."