As Harry Webb uttered the last words he gave his long toboggan, the Buster, a final shove, and hopped on behind his three companions, and away they started on the trip down Doublehead Hill.
It was a stirring scene. The upper and lower hills, although light in the full moon, were made doubly bright by the scores of bonfires and pine torches which blazed on either side of the narrow toboggan-slide.
Scores of boys and girls were out, and not a few ladies and gentlemen also, and all looked warm and happy in their gayly-colored toboggan suits.
The long, low sleds were out by the dozens, and Jack Bascoe, who was steering the Buster as best he could, had a difficult time of it, keeping clear of dangerous collisions.
“By jingo! but this is fine!” cried Andy Bascoe, Jack’s younger brother. “Who would want better sport than this?”
“You’re right, it’s fine!” returned Boxy Woodruff, the most light-hearted boy in Rudskill. “A fellow would like to keep sailing like this forever, eh? Just spread out your arms and—wow!”
Boxy’s imitation of flying came to a sudden stop as the toboggan shot over a little hill and came down with a thump on the other side. He was thrown a bit to one side, and only saved himself by grasping Jack Bascoe around the middle with both arms.
“Hold on, Boxy!” cried Jack, a little alarmed.
“That’s what I’m doing,” returned Boxy.
“I feel you,” said Jack, grimly. “But don’t pull me off, please. I’ve got to keep my eyes open for the other toboggans and sleds, you know.”