He sat very stiff amid the ruins of the snow-bank. Jimsy grinned.
"Ye ain't really done no belly-whoppin' yet," he said.
And now for the first time Abner Sawyer realized that everybody on the hill had come running at Jimsy's yell to see if he was hurt.... One was brushing him off ... another had rescued his hat with a horrible un-first-citizen dent in it and a lump of snow on the brim ... and they weren't shocked ... they weren't laughing.... Why on earth should there be friendliness now in their gaze when he had seemed so far away from them standing up there on the hill? No scandalized amazement here at the downfall of Lindon's pride ... he was somehow closer to them all.
It was Aunt Polly Magee, the self-appointed mother of the village, who finally stood the first citizen upon his feet and brushed the snow from his back.
"Dear me," she said, "that was a spill. When ye went down ye seemed 'mos' as leggy as a spider. Next time ye go coastin', Ab, ye'd better not wear your Sunday hat. 'Tain't no better'n a kite when it comes to wind."
Abner Sawyer's smile was vague and apologetic, but there was a fierce, wild joy in his heart that he didn't try to understand. He was glad he had lost his hat—he was glad he had fallen into the snow-bank—and he was glad Aunt Polly Magee had called him Ab for the first time in thirty years!
