CHAPTER XII
THE ICY HILL
Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon, going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth; the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result, Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.
Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its swaddling clothes.
His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, and they were clad in a collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would have made a ragman frown.
"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"
"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."
"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting party till to-morrow."