“I—I can’t!” was the answer. “My steering wheel is jammed!”
“You can never make it, Frank,” called Phil. “There isn’t room between that bob and the turn to get in. You’ll upset us!”
“No, I won’t! Just sit still! I’m going to do it!”
There was a quiet determination in the voice of the Big Californian, a comparatively newcomer at Randall.
With a rushing whizz Frank steered his bob up alongside of the other. It was just this side of the dangerous turn, toward which Burton was headed. He was unable to do anything toward guiding his sled, and the brake, though jammed on full, only served partly to slacken the speed. But this slackening was enough to permit the faster bob from Randall to creep up, and just in time.
Steering with the utmost skill, Frank sent his bob as close as he dared to the other. It was on his right, while on his left, dipping down with dizzying suddenness, was the turning slope that might lead to danger, or even death.
Frank thrust out his foot, and planted it firmly on the foremost sled of the new bob. At the same time he twisted his steering wheel to the right, so as to gain all the leverage he could toward forcing Burton’s bob away from the turn.
[For a moment matters hung in the balance.] An inch or two to the left would send both bobs crashing down the dangerous slope. There was a shower of ice splinters in the moonlight, a chorus of frightened gasps from the girls, and sharp breathing by the boys. Then the weight, and true steering qualities, of the Randall bob told. Slowly but surely she forced the other away, and, a moment later, as the defective steering gear on Burton’s sled gave way, there was a mix-up, and both craft overturned, while there came shrieks of dismay from all the girls.
