"All right," said Bobby. "Meg, you'll give Twaddles a coast or two,
won't you? If he kicks you in the back just shove your elbow into him."

Twaddles looked abashed. He had a habit, when excited, of kicking with
his sharp little right foot, and Bobby strongly objected to being
punched in the back when he was centering all his mind on the steering
bars of his sled.

Dot settled herself comfortably behind Bobby and glanced back at Meg
uncertainly.

"You don't mind, do you, Meg?" she asked timidly.

"Mind?" echoed Meg. "Oh, no, of course not. Silly Dot!"

Meg, Father Blossom had once said, saved a good many minutes that other
people wasted in grumbling or envying or being cross. Meg seldom had
mean little feelings.

"One, two, three--go!" shouted Dave Saunders suddenly.

A whole fleet of little sleds with shrieking youngsters on them shot
down the hill.

"Gee!" cried Twaddles, forgetting and using his right foot vigorously.
"Gee, isn't this fun!"

"There, did I steer to suit you?" asked Bobby of Dot, as he ran gently
into a sloping snow bank and the sled stopped.