Brownie Fleetfoot didn’t answer, for at that moment he tumbled headlong into a drift of snow. He lay there kicking until Jack Frost pulled him out and gently shook him to brush him off.
‘Try to keep your eyes open,’ said Jack Frost, tweaking the end of Fleetfoot’s nose. ‘And now come along. I was in Buttons’ front yard to-night painting his maple tree yellow and red,’ continued Jack Frost, ‘and a very pretty tree it is going to be. The night was as quiet as quiet could be, not a sound, when, all of a sudden, out of the door like a flash came Boots and shot off round the house as fast as he could go. He didn’t stop for anything. I could hear the bell on his neck tinkling all the way to the top of Butternut Hill. That is a high hill just back of Buttons’ house. Look out for that ice, Fleetfoot! Do you want to tumble down?’
The little Brownie laughed and shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t hurt me if I did,’ said saucy Fleetfoot, but under his breath so that Jack Frost couldn’t hear.
‘In no time at all,’ went on Jack Frost, ‘out of the house came Buttons himself in his night-clothes and no slippers, enough to give him his death of cold. And he started to hunt for Boots.’
‘It is lucky his mother didn’t see him,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘You know how particular mothers are about coats and sweaters and rubbers and all.’
‘Yes, I know,’ answered Jack Frost shortly. Perhaps he thought it was partly his fault that mothers behaved so. At any rate, he didn’t seem pleased. ‘Don’t interrupt, Fleetfoot. Of course Buttons hadn’t heard the bell going up Butternut Hill, so where does he go to look for Boots but round the barn. He thought Boots was after mice, I suppose. Well, I did my best to make Buttons go up Butternut Hill. I whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t understand a word I said. He thought I was the wind blowing. Think of that! Then I rubbed my icicle over his nose and gave his cheeks and his toes a little pinch. But that didn’t help either. He kept walking round and round the barn calling, “Boots! Boots!” and saying, “Ouch!” every time he stepped on a sharp stone with his bare feet.’
‘Poor Buttons!’ murmured Fleetfoot, looking down at his own pointed Brownie shoes that were helping him speed so swiftly over the ground. ‘Poor Buttons! He must have hurt his toes.’
‘Yes, he did,’ answered Jack Frost, a trifle sharply. ‘But I couldn’t help that, you know. Now I am so busy this Autumn weather that I couldn’t spend any more time on him. So I hurried up Butternut Hill, and there at the top, huddled in a tree, sat Boots. The foolish fellow had dreamed that a dog was chasing him. I heard him say so, talking to himself. There he sat and wouldn’t come down. Dream or no dream, he was afraid that the dog was at the foot of the hill. I pinched him and nipped him on ears and nose and toes, but still he wouldn’t move for me. I find that cats never are friendly with me,’ said Jack Frost thoughtfully, and a trifle sadly, too. ‘They are too fond of the fire and their comfort to like me very well.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Fleetfoot, trying to be both honest and kind; ‘but you mustn’t mind that, you know. Think how fond of you our reindeer are, and all the Polar Bears. But what is it you want me to do, Jack Frost? You said you had brought me down here to help.’
‘We must send Buttons back to bed as soon as we can,’ was Jack Frost’s answer. ‘I am a little worried about him. He will catch a cold, I am afraid, out in his night-clothes this frosty night. And this is how I want you to help. I thought you could play you were Boots, Fleetfoot. You Brownies can do anything, I know. You could ring your bell and run on ahead and lead Buttons straight up Butternut Hill to where the real Boots sits in a tree. I chose you, Fleetfoot, because you could run so lightly and so fast. Once Buttons has found Boots, he will carry him home to bed. There isn’t anything else that he can do. And that will be the end of it, I hope. Just think of my being so busy to-night and having to stop for a boy and a cat.’