They parted at the Silveys'. John continued on a dogtrot towards home, and a moment later was pestering Mrs. Fletcher at her work in the kitchen. "Where's some rope, Mother?" She looked from the pile of napkins on the ironing board. "What do you want it for, son?" "My sled." She walked over to a box behind the kitchen gas range and drew out a three-foot length. "Will this do?" "No. Got to be lots longer than that." "You're not going hitching, are you?" He shook his head dubiously. "Now, John! There have been little boys killed because wagons ran over them when their ropes broke and they couldn't get out of the way!" He evaded his mother's eye and sneaked from the house. Silvey was waiting for him impatiently on the front walk. "Where's the line?" he asked. "Can't go," complained John. "She won't let me." "Aw, come on. We'll go over to Southern Avenue and she won't know a thing about it. I'll get you a rope from our house." His feeble scruples vanished. A five-minute stop at the Silveys sufficed to make the necessary alterations in John's equipment. Bill brought out his own sled, and they started for the corner. In front of the grocery store, they found Pete, the wagon boy, placing the last of the noon orders in his cart. "Give us a hitch," they begged. He nodded a cheery consent. "But hurry. These have got to be delivered in time for dinner." The boys ran the ropes rapidly around the rear axle and jumped on the sleds. A shout, a sudden jerk, and they were off, swinging around the corner on Southern Avenue with a momentum which shot them far to one side. John drew a breath of relief, for it was his first experience at the sport. Bill looked up from between the sled runners and grinned. Along they sped. The smooth steel slid easily now over the closely packed snow in the wagon ruts, now over bumps which forced involuntary grunts from between their lips. As the horse increased his pace they tightened their grasp on the sled hand-holes. "Whoa," shouted Pete. The wagon stopped abruptly as he reached back into the body for a package, and the sleds shot under the wagon almost up to the horse's hoofs, before the boys could find a holding place in the hard snow for their toes.