Tom dropped the rope, and ran, gaining speed as he went, the snow flying out from under the prow of his skis, and a moment later was waving his hand from the bottom.
“Saves time, all right,” the Ranger agreed, “but what’s to become of me?”
“Get on the back of the toboggan, let one foot hang out and steer with it, and come along,” Joe laughed. “It’s easy.”
“I never steered one of the blamed things,” said Mills.
“Here, you sit on top of the bags, and hold my skis. I’ll show you.”
Joe took his skis off, put Mills on the front, and pushed the toboggan over. A cloud of snow rose over the curl of the butter box prow, powdering the Ranger in the face, and they flew down the hill in Tom’s tracks, and stopped at his side.
“Well, I’ll be darned—here we be!” was all Mills said, as he brushed off the snow.
“Tom, I believe there’s something we can teach Mr. Mills!” Joe laughed. “I believe he was afraid of a toboggan!”
Mills’ blue eyes twinkled a little.
“By gosh, I’ll go down the next one on your skis, just for that!”