The short stretch of level road at the bottom of the East Hill was reached like a flash, and it was now going by like another flash—a little slower, to be sure, but with no sign of stopping.
The driver of the team on the bridge had halted his oxen, and the boys in the sleigh seemed all at once to feel the same impulse to dodge. They leaned toward the right, and it may be some of them meant to jump; but the pressure helped a clog of wood the runners touched at that moment to turn the "whopper" out of the ruts of the road, and into the well-worn slide that led down the river-bank. It was her last plunge, and she was nearly out of breath when she took it, but it was well for those boys the ice was so thick. It bore them splendidly, sleigh and all, and away they went, until their ride used itself up, just half way over. Just as they were all drawing their breath for a grand hurrah, something black and long shot down from the western bank of the river, and out upon the very ice that belonged to them.
"Coming right for us!"
"Boys! boys! that's Court Hoffman's ripper!"
Court had done it. He had steered successfully around the curve, partly because some of his speed had gone when he reached it, and his remaining impetus had carried him on until he slipped into the gentle declivity toward the bridge and the river.
"I say," said Rod Sanderson, as the passengers of the ripper sprang to their feet, "how far did you have to haul that thing after you got down hill?"
"Ran all the way itself."
"Well, so did our whopper. Steered herself, too, and that's more'n yours can do."
"Well, yes, I should say so."
Court was looking and feeling a little thoughtful. The coasting on the West Hill was almost too good for his ripper, and he wanted to consider the matter before he tried it again.