doesn’t count, so give me two more and then I’ll be good.”
Jill took her seat as she spoke, and looked up with such a rosy,
pleading face that Jack gave in at once, and down they went again,
raising a cloud of glittering snow-dust as they reined up in fine
style with their feet on the fence.
“It’s just splendid! Now, one more!” cried Jill, excited by the
cheers of a sleighing party passing below.
Proud of his skill, Jack marched back, resolved to make the third
“go” the crowning achievement of the afternoon, while Jill pranced
after him as lightly as if the big boots were the famous
seven-leagued ones, and chattering about the candy-scrape and
whether there would be nuts or not.
So full were they of this important question, that they piled on
hap-hazard, and started off still talking so busily that Jill forgot to
hold tight and Jack to steer carefully. Alas, for the candy-scrape
that never was to be! Alas, for poor “Thunderbolt” blindly setting
forth on the last trip he ever made! And oh, alas, for Jack and Jill,
who wilfully chose the wrong road and ended their fun for the
winter! No one knew how it happened, but instead of landing in
the drift, or at the fence, there was a great crash against the bars, a
dreadful plunge off the steep bank, a sudden scattering of girl, boy,
sled, fence, earth, and snow, all about the road, two cries, and then
silence.
“I knew they’d do it!” and, standing on the post where he had
perched, Joe waved his arms and shouted: “Smash-up! Smash-up!
Run! Run!” like a raven croaking over a battlefield when the fight
was done.
Down rushed boys and girls ready to laugh or cry, as the case
might be, for accidents will happen on the best-regulated
coasting-grounds. They found Jack sitting up looking about him
with a queer, dazed expression, while an ugly cut on the forehead
was bleeding in a way which sobered the boys and frightened the
girls half out of their wits.
“He’s killed! He’s killed!” wailed Sue, hiding her face and
beginning to cry.
“No, I m not. I’ll be all right when I get my breath. Where’s Jill?”
asked Jack, stoutly, though still too giddy to see straight.
The group about him opened, and his comrade in misfortune was
discovered lying quietly in the snow with all the pretty color
shocked out of her face by the fall, and winking rapidly, as if half
stunned. But no wounds appeared, and when asked if she was
dead, she answered in a vague sort of way,
“I guess not. is Jack hurt?”
“Broken his head,” croaked Joe, stepping aside, that she might
behold the fallen hero vainly trying to look calm and cheerful with
red drops running down his cheek and a lump on his forehead.
Jill shut her eyes and waved the girls away, saying, faintly, “Never
mind me. Go and see to him.”
“Don’t! I m all right,” and Jack tried to get up in order to prove that
headers off a bank were mere trifles to him; but at the first
movement of the left leg he uttered a sharp cry of pain, and would
have fallen if Gus had not caught and gently laid him down.
“What is it, old chap?” asked Frank, kneeling beside him, really
alarmed now, the hurts seeming worse than mere bumps, which
were common affairs among baseball players, and not worth much
notice.
“I lit on my head, but I guess I’ve broken my leg. Don’t frighten
mother,” and Jack held fast to Frank’s arm as he looked into the
anxious face bent over him; for, though the elder tyrannized over
the younger, the brothers loved one another dearly.
“Lift his head, Frank, while I tie my handkerchief round to stop the
bleeding,” said a quiet voice, as Ed Devlin laid a handful of soft
snow on the wound; and Jack’s face brightened as he turned to
thank the one big boy who never was rough with the small ones.
“Better get him right home,” advised Gus, who stood by looking
on, with his little sisters Laura and Lotty clinging to him.