The Riddle Club through the holidays

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.”