“Now,—come,” said the other.
“Listen, I’m paralyzed,” Peggy confessed. “My left foot just won’t—won’t work, you know, I can’t get it to snow-shoe another step. It just stays still. It’s paralyzed—”
What was that—could she believe her eyes? The young man had glanced down sympathetically enough toward the paralyzed foot but was it any subject for such wild fits of mirth as he immediately went into? Was it right that he should laugh and laugh and point, speechless, and then clap his hand over his mouth and go off again?
“You are very cruel and perfectly horrid,” cried Peggy sharply, “and I hate, I hate you!”
“O—oh, pardon me, little Hot-Temper, but look back at your snow-shoe, please,” and the laugh distorted his face once more.
Painfully and indignantly Peggy screwed her cold face over her left shoulder and looked down.
“Why—why,” she gasped all out of breath, with astonishment, “how did it get there?”
For there, comfortably ensconced on the back of her snow-shoe, waiting for a free ride, sat, as perky as you please a plump puppy, his head cocked interestedly on one side, and his wide mouth open in an inquiring fashion as if he would like to know what she was going to do about it now that she had found him out.
“The—the—smart little thing!” Peggy couldn’t help exclaiming. “There he was, being a parasite, while I was supposed to do the walking.—Only it’s a good joke on him, as I couldn’t.”
“As soon as the soft snow fell, I suppose the little fellow sank in pretty deep every step,” the young man grinned, stooping and sweeping the quivering, frisking body into his arms. “And the rascal was going to take it easy as soon as he saw your snow-shoes coming along. Lucky I missed him when I did,—and you’re not paralyzed now, are you?”