“Well, then, I run out of the side door.”
“Both on 'em asleep?”
Ephraim nodded.
Ezra Ray whistled. “You'll get a whippin' when your mother finds it out.”
“No, I sha'n't. Mother can't whip me, because the doctor says it ain't good for me. You goin' down?”
“Can't go down but once. I've got to go home, or mother 'll give it to me.”
“Does she ever whip you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Mine don't,” said Ephraim, and he felt a superiority over Ezra Ray. He thought, too, that his sled was a better one. It was not painted, nor was it as new as Ezra's, but it had a reputation. Barney had won many coasting laurels with it in his boyhood, and his little brother, who had never used it himself, had always looked upon it with unbounded faith and admiration.
He gathered up his sled-rope, spurred himself into a start with his heels, and went swiftly down the long hill, gathering speed as he went. Poor Ephraim had an instinct for steering; he did not swerve from the track. The frosty wind smote his face, his breath nearly failed him, but half-way down he gave a triumphant whoop. When he reached the foot of the hill he had barely wind enough to get off his sled and drag it to one side, for Ezra Ray was coming down.