‘A bell?’ whispered back Fleetfoot. ‘What kind of bell? A dinner bell? A bicycle bell?’
‘No,’ answered Jack Frost, his finger on his lips, ‘a cat’s bell. Hush!’
For Brownie Mischief had flung out his arms and tossed his quilt off on the floor, and Sharpeyes had turned over with a long, long sigh.
Fleetfoot crept on tiptoe into the work-room and without a sound untied a silver bell from the neck of a drowsy white fur cat.
Then he and Jack Frost stole downstairs and out of the house without being seen by a single person except the friendly Moon, who not only smiled as he watched them, but followed them on their journey all the way.
‘Now, we can talk,’ said Jack Frost, as hand in hand they sped over the snow. ‘Let me tell you why I came after you to-night.’
Brownie Fleetfoot nodded his red-capped head. This was just what he wanted to know, of course.
‘In the first place,’ began Jack Frost, ‘Buttons has lost Boots.’
Here he paused for a moment to shift his paint-brush from one shoulder to the other, but Fleetfoot was too wise to interrupt by a question. He knew what a sharp little fellow Jack Frost could be if he wished.
‘Buttons is a little boy,’ went on Jack Frost, taking a tight hold on Fleetfoot’s hand. ‘He has a new winter coat trimmed with brass buttons. And, too, his eyes are as round as buttons and so are his nose and his mouth. All this may be why he is called Buttons. I can’t say. Boots is his cat. It is easy to tell where he gets his name, for he wears a white fur boot on each foot.’