Nan hurried into the front room, followed by Freddie. Flossie was still at the window looking out.
“Bert’s stuck in a snowdrift,” she reported. “Look, he can hardly get out!”
And this was true. So deep was the snow in front of the house, and so far down in the drift had Bert plunged when he toppled off the roof, that it was all the boy could do to scramble out. Still he was making headway, floundering about to reach the front steps.
Nan ran to the door and opened it.
“Bert Bobbsey!” she cried. “What did you want to jump off the roof for?”
“I didn’t jump,” Bert said, somewhat out of breath as at last he managed to free his legs and reach the porch.
“Freddie says you jumped,” went on Nan.
“No I didn’t! I fell,” panted Bert. “I cut the tree branch—and—then I slipped—off the box. I was standing on a box. I rolled—off—the roof—but I’m not hurt because I—fell in a snow bank.”
“Oh, I’m glad of that!” exclaimed Nan.
“You are?” cried Bert, with a laugh. “Well, you wouldn’t be glad if you had as much snow down your back as I’ve got down mine!”