“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.