A bob had been known to scoot right between the wheels of a wagon, and not hurt a thing, so swift was it going; and Ned himself, horrified, unable to stop, had taken the legs from under a stupid cow; but when she had reached the snow with a thump he had been far away.
Breede’s Hill had been so dubbed by some history enthusiast; on the next street south was Bunker Hill, in like manner named. It was not a proper hill for coasting, being rocky, and having a sharp curve.
On this Friday afternoon after school Ned, accompanied by Bob, gaily dragged his snake-like sled to Breede’s Hill. Here he and a dozen others toiled lustily for an hour and a half, breaking a track. One or two sleighs had been along the road, but the snow lay deep and white, with its possibilities still undeveloped.
It was necessary to tramp the snow down, and drag sleds through it, sideways, and even to roll in it, in order to clear a path which, under the friction of the runners, should become hard and “slick.”
To the tramping and scraping, and frolicsome rolling Bob lent nothing but his noisy good-will and applause. One would have thought, noting his hilarity, that the snow and the boys had come together simply for his entertainment!
Finally a track deemed worthy of being tested had been leveled, and the first coast of the season was made, with a whoop of joy, by the other bob in the party—the bob-sled.
Farther and farther, each time, went the bob, with the single sleds—all but that of Ned—in the party, bringing up behind. Ned rode on the bob, until the moment when the track should be hard and fit for his low clipper.
This was the only drawback to that pride of his heart: it was useless in loose snow, or in ruts.
At dark, by dint of much play which seemed like work, Breede’s Hill was fit for the final polishing, by a hundred and more runners, on the morrow. Ned went home, and Bob went home, and the other boys went home, hungry and well satisfied; and none was more hungry or more satisfied than Bob, who had done the least and fussed the most.
“Say—but the hill is getting dandy!” exclaimed Ned, at dinner, Saturday, to which he had come panting and damp and perfectly empty.