They were some time in setting out, and it was not because the girls “prinked,” as Tavia pointed out.
“I’d have you know we have been waiting five whole minutes,” she proclaimed when Ned and Nat drew the long, rusty-ironed, double-ripper sled out of the barn. “For once you boys cannot complain.”
“Those kids had been trying to use this big sled, I declare,” Nat said. “And I had to find a couple of new bolts. Don’t want to break down on the hill and spill you girls.”
“That would be spilling the beans for fair,” Ned put in. “Oh, beg pardon! Be-ings, I mean. Get aboard, beautiful beings, and we’ll drag you to the foot of the hill.”
They went on down the back road and into the woods with much merriment. The foot of Snake Hill was a mile and a half from The Cedars. Part of the hill was rough and wild, and there was not a farm upon its side anywhere.
“I wonder where the kids are making their slide?” said Tavia, easily.
“That’s why I am glad we came this way,” Dorothy confessed. “They might be tempted to slide down on this steep side, instead of going over to the Washington Village road. That’s smooth.”
“Trust the boys for finding the most dangerous place,” Jennie Hapgood remarked. “I never saw their like.”
“That’s because you only have an older brother,” said Dorothy, wisely. “He was past his reckless age while you were still in pinafores and pigtails.”
“Reckless age!” scoffed Tavia. “When does a boy or a man ever cease to be reckless?”