"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from convincing.
Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail. Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again, swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given anything in the world to have recalled that sound.
They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others, pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.
"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long sweep."
"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing to take a chance. You Scouts—" But he thought better of it, and left the accusation unsaid.
During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top, when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward position.
"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this side of the railroad track, where the road branches?"
"Of course."
"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see, the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's dangerous."