To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel. Page [135].
He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second click of the far rail—waited—waited—waited. Would it never come? Then—snap!—he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was over safely.
A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his very side.
He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.
The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led. But there was no room to spare. Before they were around, they had climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.
Afterward—some minutes afterward—when the locked sleds had ground to a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground, with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but Bonfire was too exhausted to speak.
"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"
It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I—I did a lot of thinking back there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I—I guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought you were—well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people. But this morning—" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind, and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off—Do you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly. I—Well, it—it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they turned toward his little brother.
"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."