They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled. Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering, the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove worn by the coasters.
For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment. Then, all at once, three of them spoke.
"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and—"
"—and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks there—"
"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It—Cree, it's my kid brother!"
It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that. Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.
Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung himself and sled headlong upon the slide.
Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily from the running start, sped along side by side, with Peter Barrett's on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's on the left. Far ahead now—hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire—the runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down Old Forty Five.
Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them together.