And burying his face in Boots’ fur, poor, tired Buttons fell fast asleep.
‘This won’t do! This won’t do!’ scolded Jack Frost, hurrying up and shaking his paint-brush as if he would sweep Boots and Buttons down the road. ‘This will never do! Come, Fleetfoot, come! We must get home at once.’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Fleetfoot soothingly, sitting down beside Buttons and quickly pulling off his own pointed Brownie shoes. ‘See, Jack Frost, I will put my own Brownie shoes on Buttons’ feet. Just like this. Now I will pull Boots down on the ground and climb on his back, so. Whoa, Boots, whoa! Now, Jack Frost, take your icicle and poke Buttons until he wakes. Wake up, Buttons, wake up! Open your eyes! Good! Now, let’s run!’
And, sure enough, off they started. Boots ran like the wind, his bell all a-tinkle, his ears pointing skyward, his tail and his whiskers standing out straight. On his back rode Fleetfoot, holding on by the cat’s collar, and ringing his own bell wildly as he rode. Behind them sped Buttons, the Brownie shoes carrying him over the ground faster than he had ever run before. Close at his side came Jack Frost, poking him with his icicle now and then, though there wasn’t the slightest need.
It was the funniest race the silver Moon had ever looked down upon. No wonder he laughed until the stars all crowded round to see too.
Home at last! Jack Frost gave a great sigh of relief as Buttons vanished into the house and up the stairs to bed. Boots like a shadow ran at his heels.
‘Just a moment,’ said Jack Frost, as he and Fleetfoot stared up at the dark and silent house, ‘until I see that they are really safe.’
Like a flash Jack Frost disappeared, and when he came back, as suddenly as he had gone, his face was all a-smile.
‘Fast asleep already,’ said he. ‘They were both tired out. Now, Fleetfoot, you must go home. You had better ride back on the Wind, I think. You have run enough for one night. Tell Santa Claus you were a great help. I never could have got those two home if it hadn’t been for you. Good-bye! I must go back to work. This maple tree isn’t half finished. Look at the green leaves I must paint to-night.’
Jack Frost with a flourish of his paint-brush disappeared among the maple boughs as Fleetfoot climbed upon the shoulder of the friendly West Wind.