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“Great winters you have up here!” he said jerkily. “Must be no end of sport, when you get the hang of things. Can’t say I’ve quite done that yet.”

“You’ll get it quickly enough,” Sam assured him.

“Hope so,” said Varley. “I’d like——” he broke off abruptly. “Hear that? What’s happening up the street?”

Sam didn’t answer. Indeed, he had no need to do so. Like Varley, he had heard the sharp “honk, honk!” of an automobile horn rising above the jingle of sleigh-bells, and then a woman’s shriek of alarm, and the quick beat of hoofs on the icy roadway. A horse, drawing a light cutter, had taken fright at a passing motor car, had got out of control of the woman who held the reins, and was making a frantic bolt. Turning, the boys had a glimpse of a wiry bay, neck outstretched, ears back, red nostrils distended; of a sleigh swaying wildly; of a woman tugging vainly at the reins.

“Runaway!” gasped Varley. Then he did the instinctive thing, and the plucky thing. The horse was very near, and coming fast. Varley sprang into the street. Promptly as he acted, though, there was a second in which his eyes were on Sam; and in that instant he had a queer impression that his companion was about to do as he was doing. But Sam suddenly appeared to change his plan, for he wheeled, and ran down the street, approaching the track of the runaway, not directly but on a long diagonal.