Poor Ephraim had an instinct for steering; he did not swerve from the track.

The frosty wind smote his face, his breath nearly failed him, but half-way down he gave a triumphant whoop.

When he reached the foot of the hill he had barely wind enough to get off his sled and drag it to one side, for Ezra Ray was coming down.
Ezra did not slide as far as Ephraim had done.

Ephraim watched anxiously lest he should.

"That sled of yours ain't no good," he panted, when Ezra had stopped several yards from where he stood.
"Guess it ain't quite so fast as yours," admitted Ezra.