They kicked and fought each other and the sled, until the influence of the calm voice behind them began to work upon them. Then their own craft came back to them and they remembered the many bitter lessons they had gotten from kicking and fighting in deep snow. They lay still and waited for the voice to come and get them out of this.
As the Bishop tugged sturdily at the sled to release Arsene, he remembered that he had seen men under fire. And he said to himself that he had never seen a cooler or a braver man than this little French-Canadian storekeeper.
The little man rolled out unhurt, the snow had been soft under him, and lunged for the ponies’ heads.
“Up, Maje! Easee, Lisette, easee! Now! Ah-a! Bien!”
He had them both by their bridles and dragged them skilfully to their feet and up the bank. With a lurch or two and a scramble they were all safe back on the hard under-footing of the trail.
Arsene now looked around for the Bishop.
“Ba Golly! M’sieur l’Eveque, dat’s one fine jomp. You got hurt, you?”
The Bishop declared that he was not in any way the worse from the tumble, and Arsene turned to his team. As the Bishop struggled back up the bank, the little man looked up from his inspection of his harness and said ruefully:
“Dat’s bad, M’sieur l’Eveque. She’s gone bust.”