“I didn’t say anybody was, did I?” returned Ned, stoutly.
“Well, don’t go shootin’ off your lip ’round here, then,” grumbled Big Mike, in an ugly tone. He waited to see if Ned wouldn’t answer back and give him a better chance to force a fight; but Ned never spoke a word, and the South Beauforter slouched back among his fellows, while they laughed loudly.
For a brief space the coasting continued without especial incident. However, this was only a lull, during which the South Beauforters were but biding their chance. Presently it came.
As they artfully lingered around their bob-sled, at the end of the track, they saw Ned, head on, sweeping toward them upon his clipper. Just as he reached them they neatly jerked their heavy bob square across his path. There was no time for him to swerve. With a thud he struck broadside the rearmost of the two sleds. The clipper stopped short, as though killed; but Ned himself went plunging on, clear over the bob, to plough the snow and slush with face and hands and stomach.
He scrambled up wet, furious, yet willing, if allowed, to accept the mishap as a bit of rude joking. He felt that discretion was here the better part of valor.
However, he was not given any choice in the matter.
“Say,” accosted Big Mike, again, as Ned walked forward, while brushing himself off, to get his sled, “what do you mean by runnin’ into us? Ain’t you got eyes?”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Ned. “I didn’t have time to turn out.”
“You did, too,” snarled a Conner, giving Ned’s innocent clipper a vicious kick into the ditch.
“I didn’t. You pulled your bob across the track on purpose—you know you did,” accused Ned, goaded beyond bearing.