"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my friends coasting."
"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little boys.
"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"
They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.
"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other. Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat, sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with us, Peter?"
"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree and tucked the fur cover more snugly about his little brother. "Say, I—I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."
"Come ahead!"
By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.
A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot. The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness; so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.
"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.