“Well, let’s start right away then,” urged George.
This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. “I have only one pair of snow-shoes,” he said at last, “and you probably don’t know how to use them anyway, and you can’t walk on the snow.”
“I have a sled,” suggested George.
“That won’t do,” said Henry. “I’ve got to have something that won’t sink in the snow—that will lie flat, so I can draw you along.”
“How about that table?” said the girl.
“Good suggestion,” cried Henry.
It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside down, took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off, fastened a piece of clothesline to the butts of two of them.
“Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as not to dig into the snow,” he said, “it would be fine.” He thought a moment. “Where is that sled of yours, George?”
“Here,” said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved upwards. Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip’s protests. He nailed these runners to the front of the table and stretched rope tightly across them so that he had four up-curves in front of the table.
“Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let the sled ride over the snow, instead of digging into it,” he said to the girl.