"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's nail on a brace and try it."
"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"
"Sure!"
"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and—"
"—and what?"
"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called, as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door again."
"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."
"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.
Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed above the snug fur lap-robe.