At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.
The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder. Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast every shred of his skill.
He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the course by digging a toe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer at the way he steered.
But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He might catch it yet; might—no, must!
Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them; then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a little, but his fingers did not relax.
He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were a little farther away!
Mingled with the scratch-scratch of the iron-shod runners came another sound,—loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was. Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then, like a flash, came the explanation.
It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad track. If the child on the sled crashed into it—
In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.
He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track. And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would reach it together.