ON POND’S HILL
Fred took his bank upstairs and hid it in the usual place. That night
he dreamed he was president of a bank and the members of the Riddle
Club came to him to pay their dues faster than he could take the
money in. There seemed to be a great many more members than six, and
presently Fred discovered the reason--the Conundrum Club members had
joined!
The shock of this discovery woke him up. It was morning, but so gray
and dull that Fred was ready to turn over and go to sleep. Then he
remembered that it had begun to snow the night before and he hopped out
of bed and pattered to the window. It was still snowing and everything
in sight was well covered.
Of course there was no sleep for Fred after that, and not much for
the rest of the Williamson family. Usually Fred waited till his
father called him before he started to dress, but this morning he was
downstairs and prancing about on the porch when his father came to look
for him.
“Here, here, can’t you wait till after breakfast?” asked Mr.
Williamson. “Mother is going to bake hot cakes, and the boy who appears
with his hair combed and his necktie straight is going to have the
first one.”
Fred dashed back to his room and hastily brushed his hair. He and
Margy felt a deep interest in hot cakes, but it must be confessed they
were also “crazy” about the snow. They could hardly wait to eat their
breakfast, bundle themselves into coats and hats and woolly scarfs, and
plunge into that beautiful whiteness.
“Hello!” called Artie, from his porch, as he saw the Williamsons about
to start for school. “Wait a minute!”
The Marley front steps had not been brushed off, and Artie had no idea
of the depth of the snow. He took one step and sank into a feathery,
fluffy bed up to his neck.
“Gee, I missed that next step,” he said, with perfect good humor,
rising and brushing himself off. “Here comes Polly.”
Polly and the Larues joined the others, and, running and laughing, they
began the walk to school. The flying flakes stung their eyes and melted
on their faces, and it was fun to make snowballs and hurl them at the
fences and trees they passed and, yes, at each other.
“We’ll go coasting this afternoon, sure,” said Fred, as they reached
the school-yard gate.
Home they raced at the close of the afternoon session to get out the
sleds hidden in attic and cellar since the winter before.
The boys had each a sled, and Polly and Jess had their own, but Margy
preferred to claim a share in Fred’s long racer. She could never be
induced to go down the hill alone, and most of the time she coasted
with Polly.
“Everybody’s here,” said Ward, cheerfully, when they reached Pond’s
Hill, a beautiful slope on the other side of town.
It was still snowing fitfully, but the flakes were larger, an
indication that the storm was beginning to let up. Artie and Ward
wished it would snow for a week, but the older folk thought that a day
and a night should satisfy any one.
“There’s Carrie Pepper,” whispered Polly to Margy.
“And Mattie Helms,” added Jess.
“And Joe Anderson,” said Artie. “He has a new sled.”
Fred heard and turned to look. Sure enough, Joe had a new sled and it
was a beauty, long and low and with the flexible steering gear of the
best make of sled. Harry Worden, a post-graduate student in the high
school, was examining Joe’s possession in evident admiration.
“Some sled!” was his verdict.
Then he saw Fred and waved to him. The Riddle Club members knew Harry
Worden very well. The spring before, when he was a high school senior,
he had served as referee at a riddle contest held between their club
and the Conundrum Club. They liked him very much.
“Hello, Fred,” called Harry. “Come on over here and look at this.”
Fred went over to the other side of the road, glad of a chance to see
the new sled more closely.
“It’s a peach!” he told Joe, heartily. “Present?”
“Got it for my birthday,” Joe answered. “This sled cost a lot, and it’s
better than any one else’s. I’ll bet I can beat any one on the hill
now.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” drawled Harry Worden, lazily. “It
isn’t always the sled that wins a race. Something depends on the boy
who does the steering.”
“Bet you I can beat any one on the hill,” Joe boasted.
Harry only laughed and turned away and Fred went back to his friends.
“Take Margy down first, Fred,” Polly suggested. “She has more fun
before her feet get cold.”
Margy was apt to complain, midway in her outdoor sport, that her feet
were “freezing.”
Fred obligingly took his sister on behind him, but neither one could
be said to enjoy the ride down the hill. Margy shut her eyes tight and
Fred declared she pinched him.
“I didn’t!” said the indignant Margy. “I had to hang on to something,
didn’t I? Anyway, Fred Williamson, you go too fast.”
Polly said Margy should coast with her next, and amicable relations
were restored, as Fred shot down the hill alone, deftly curving in and
out to avoid the sleds that were flying down at the same time.
“I wish I could steer as well as Fred can,” sighed Polly, taking her
place on her own sled with Margy back of her. “It’s because he isn’t
afraid to take a chance. He will go around a sled or almost into the
ditch. But I’m always thinking of a smash-up.”
Ward and Artie were enjoying themselves in their own way, which was a
peculiar one, to say the least. Ward liked to lie flat on his sled with
Artie perched on top of him, and if one or the other rolled off in the
course of the descent, why, that was nothing at all! Snow, argued Ward
and Artie, was soft and comfortable, and one could always get out of
the way of an approaching sled by tumbling over and over till safe from
the danger of being run down.
Jess, too, had a method, and she followed it faithfully. Hers was a
sober enjoyment, for she went down the hill on her sled, turned around
and trudged back, to do the same thing again. Left alone, Jess would
coast contentedly a whole morning or afternoon, without mishap or
apparent excitement.
Polly and Fred liked to try experiments. They tried Polly’s sled with
Fred steering, and Fred’s sled with Polly guiding it. They went down
backward once and landed in the ditch. They tried to see how many
children they could pile on the two sleds, and they raced each other
with enthusiasm.
It was when they were returning from one of these races that Harry
Worden hailed them.
“Hey, Fred, want some fun?” he shouted.
Fred did, and he and Polly ran over to where Harry stood.
“Joe Anderson wants a race,” said Harry. “He thinks your sled is
probably the fastest on the hill, next to his. Want to try a race?”
“Sure,” answered Fred, quickly. “I’m willing.”
The news of the proposed race spread in a moment, and a crowd of boys
and girls gathered around Fred and Joe.
“Go to it, Fred,” some cried. “You can win.”
“Joe has the best sled,” others insisted. “No one can win against that
flier. It’s a peach.”
“Oh, I don’t know--Fred can get a lot of speed out of his old boat,”
said one of the boys.
Albert Holmes sniffed.
“Old boat, is right,” he said. “It’s about fifty years old.”
Fred grinned good-naturedly. His sled wasn’t new, but it wasn’t falling
apart yet, he assured them.
“I’m going down to the foot of the hill to watch the finish,” announced
Harry Worden. “Billy Pierce will give you the word to start.”
Jess and Artie and Ward decided to stay at the top of the hill, but
Polly tagged along after Harry, and Margy went with her. As soon as
they reached the foot of the hill, Harry waved his arm as a signal to
Billy Pierce to give the word to the racers.
“There they go!” cried Polly, as the two black specks at the top of the
hill suddenly shot down.
The snow had stopped half an hour before, and the hill was well packed
from the sleds and the feet of the coasters. It was cold, but even
Margy forgot that in the excitement of the moment.
The sleds seemed to be evenly matched half of the distance, then one
pulled slightly ahead.
“It’s Fred!” said Polly, in a half-whisper. “I know him by his cap.”
Fred’s sled, if it was Fred’s sled, kept the lead. The other did not
gain.
“Fred shot around that well in the road, I guess, and Joe must have
gone in and out--that takes time,” said Harry. “But you’re likely to
land in the ditch, going around.”
The watchers could see now that it was Fred who was ahead. Margy
thought she felt a flake of snow and looked up at the sky, while Harry
allowed his gaze to wander past the racing sleds to the top of the
hill. It was but a moment, but Polly was the only one to see what
happened in that moment.
“He turned him!” she cried. “I saw him do it! That Joe Anderson would
do anything to win! Don’t let him, Harry. Please, don’t let him!”
Harry Worden looked at the sleds, now near enough to be plainly
distinguished. Joe Anderson was in the lead, grinning triumphantly, and
Fred was just swinging his sled back on the course.
“Told you I could do it!” said Joe, as his sled swept past Polly and
Margy and Harry. “Can’t beat this sled!”
“You cheated!” Polly accused him, almost beside herself with anger. “I
saw you! You put out your hand and shoved Fred over to the left. That
isn’t fair, and don’t you dare----”
Fred tumbled off his sled and came up to them. He looked angry, but
when he saw Polly he tried to grin.
“I won!” said Joe Anderson, boastfully. “You did pretty well, Fred. But
of course your steering gear is out of date.”
“You cheated!” said Polly again.
Harry Worden looked troubled.
“Of course, I wasn’t looking,” he said slowly, “and I didn’t see what
happened. But Polly seems to think----”
Fred turned to Polly and blazed at her, to her utmost astonishment, for
he had never spoken to her like that in his life.
“You keep still!” he cried angrily. “I lost the race, and that’s all
there is to it.”
“No, that isn’t all there is to it,” Harry Worden corrected him. “You
race again, and this time I intend to know what is going on.”