Part 10

"Jim means," defines Tommy, getting back at me, "a slope you can safely descend without any _untoward incident_...."

"Oh!" says Ronnie.

* * * * *

We spend a good hour, Ronnie and me, getting him familiar with having skis on his feet. Meanwhile the rest of the guys are having a swell time skiing down the hill and I'm commencing to think that I'm the martyr to the cause, being crazy to do some real skiing myself.

"How about it?" I ask, finally, "do you feel like you can go it alone?"

"It's quite simple now," says Ronnie. "Do you mean you think I'm ready to ski down the hill?"

The question gives me a chill. Skiing on a plane surface and skiing down hill is as different as walking in broad daylight and skating in the dark with roller skates.

"You'd better stick to just what you're doing for a couple days," I advises. "You're getting along swell."

"I feel quite confident," replies Ronnie. "This is mostly a matter of balance ... something I've always been good at. I walked our clothes line once. Everything would have been all right if it hadn't busted."

"Yes," says I, "Most things would be okay if something didn't happen. But you use your own judgment, Ronnie. If you think you're ready to go down the hill, it's up to you. Only don't blame me if you suffer any ... er ... minor accident."

"How could I blame you?" Ronnie wants to know. "I'm awfully grateful for all you've taught me. This is the most fun I've had in months ... maybe years...."

"That's fine," I replies. "Here's hoping you keep on having fun."

"That's why I want to go down the hill," declares Ronnie. "I imagine that would give me a real sensation."

"It's the big thrill in skiing," Mack puts in, being eager to see Ronnie make his first attempt. "Just follow my tracks, Ronnie, if you decide to go down, and you can't go wrong!"

"I--I believe I'll do it," says Ronnie, after taking a deep breath. "It's a long ways down. I probably won't be able to ski back up the hill. That looks a lot harder."

"Aim for that embankment across the Pike," points out Mack. "See if you can beat my mark."

"Oh, I couldn't do that first off," returns Ronnie, modestly. "I'd be satisfied if I could tie it. I imagine my momentum will be about the same so I should travel about as far."

"There's no doubt about it--you'll travel!" assures Tommy.

"If this works out all right," says Ronnie, "I'll have my Dad see me do it and maybe he'll change his mind about letting you fellows use the hill. Of course he mustn't know that you've taught me. He's to think that all these tracks are mine."

"Ronnie," says I, "my hat's off to you. You're a regular sport. And what's more--I admire your nerve."

"Oh, this doesn't take nerve," disparages Ronnie. "It just takes skill."

"Well, have it your own way," says Mack, and we all stand around to watch the take-off.

"Feet together," I directs, feeling shaky inside. "Lean forward a little more. That's it!"

"Goodbye, fellows!" calls Ronnie, as he moves toward the spot where the hill slopes down, eyes glued ahead.

"Goodbye!" we shout.

It sounds to me like we're saying goodbye for a long time. There's a sickening feeling comes in the pit of my stomach as Ronnie suddenly disappears over the brow of the hill and shoots down. Say--have you ever ridden in a roller coaster? Well--you zip down a steep hill on skis and tell me which gives you the biggest heart throb. In a coaster you can at least hold onto the rod and sit tight. On skis you've got to hold yourself just so or you may find yourself flying through space and landing hard enough to jar your wisdom teeth.

"So far, so good," says Mack, when Ronnie's half way down.

"I don't care to look," I rejoins, getting panicky. "I never should have let him gone!"

"He's doing swell!" cries Tommy. "Oh--oh, no! He's not doing so good now! He's veering to the right. He's off the course. He's heading for the fence!"

"Good grief!" I exclaims, and takes a look. "Sit down, Ronnie!" I yells, making a megaphone of my hands. "Sit down--quick!"

But Ronnie doesn't hear me. He's too wrapped up in his own problem.

"Oh, my gosh!" gasps Eddie, "that tree!"

How Ronnie missed a big oak, I don't know. He just shaves it and goes on, right through a clump of underbrush and down a steep grade toward the fence, his body weaving back and forth as he's fighting to keep his balance.

"Look out!" I screams, and then it happens.

Ronnie hits the fence ker-smash and goes right on over, doing the niftiest frontward somersault you ever saw, and landing head first in a snow drift with only his skis sticking out. We're all of us so petrified that we stand there a couple seconds, not knowing what to do or say. Then we see Ronnie's feet kick and his head come out of the snow.

"I'll bet he's hurt!" I cries. "I'm going down to him!"

As I'm strapping on my skis, though, the fellows bust out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I demands.

"He's waving at us!" roars Tommy, "he thinks that's great stuff! I don't think he's hurt a bit!"

I stand up and stare and we all wave back. Ronnie starts trying to climb the fence with his skis still on but he finds this doesn't work so good, so he takes 'em off. And when I'm sure he isn't hurt, I take to laughing myself. Honest, I haven't seen such a funny spill since I can remember. Talk about innocence abroad! The way Ronnie has gone down the hill, so sure he has known all he needed to know about skiing!

"So you're laughing at my boy, eh?" says a big voice behind us.

Wow! We just about freeze in our tracks! As we turn around, there's Mr. Turner, so mad he can hardly see straight. How long he's been standing there, we don't know, but it's probably been plenty long enough. And now we're going to catch it!

"My wife thought something was up," says the man who owns the hill, "so she phoned me and I came home. This is what you do behind my back, is it?"

"It was your son's idea," explains Tommy, who's scared green. "He wanted us to teach him how to ski...."

"So this is the way you do it--start him down this big hill?"

"I told him he'd better not try it," says I.

"When I want my son to know anything, I'll teach him!" booms Mr. Turner. "You boys aren't going to make a laughing stock of him! I used to ski when I was a boy and I...."

"_You?_" Mack exclaims, unbelievingly.

"Yes, _me_!" thunders Mr. Turner. "And Ronald could do what I used to do with a little practice. Loan me those skis, young man, and I'll show you a thing or two!"

Mack, open-mouthed, passes his skis over. Ronnie, meanwhile, is struggling to get back up the hill. He can't make it on skis and is in snow up to his waist. His dad kneels down and slips his feet into the straps as we gaze at him, darn near paralyzed. What can we say? Mr. Turner is boiling mad ... so mad that he gets one ski on backward. He kicks it off and turns it around.

"Excuse me, Mr. Turner," breaks in Tommy, "but hadn't you better come back here on the hill? Don't put your skis on while you're on the slope. You might start off before you're ready. You know, skis don't have any brakes...!"

"Are you telling me something about skis, young man?" is Mr. Turner's rejoinder.

"I'm trying to," replies Tommy, backing off, "but I guess it doesn't matter much. You'll find out soon enough."

Mr. Turner glowers.

"Careful, Dad!" cries Ronnie, who comes panting up the hill. "It's not so easy as it looks!"

"Stand back, son!" orders Mr. Turner, and stands up suddenly. The incline starts him moving and off he goes--before he's ready.

"Dad!" yells Ronnie, but there's none of us near enough to catch him.

Mr. Turner gives one anxious glance behind him, and almost falls over backwards as he swoops downward. What's worse--he hasn't had a chance to steer himself and he shoots off the straight-away at once, going more and more to the left.

"He's heading for the creek!" we all cry. "Sit down, Mr. Turner! Sit down!"

When you sit down it helps slow you up and you can usually manage to stop although you may roll over a few times. But it's better than running into something by a whole lot.

"Maybe he'll jump the creek!" speculates Mack. "It's only about fifteen feet across!"

"I don't think my Dad was ever on skis before!" says Ronnie, worriedly. "He thinks anything a boy does is easy."

We groan at this, though I'm willing to believe that Mr. Turner has had some experience with skis which he hasn't thought worth mentioning until this moment. It's even steeper down the left side of the hill than it is down the center where we've made our course, and Mr. Turner is going like the wind when he gets to the bottom. We can tell that he sees the creek and is trying to figure out how he can avoid it. He tries to move his skis to the side and make a turn but nearly upsets. Thirty feet from the creek he lifts one ski off the snow and desperately attempts to swing sidewise. Instead he criss-crosses his skis, tangles up his legs, sits down with a smack, and goes sliding right on, clawing and scraping until he clears the bank of the creek and sails out over the water to land ker-splash in the middle.

"Oh, boy--and is that water cold!" shivers Mack.

"He sure showed us something!" murmurs Tommy.

Say--if we were to be tanned the next minute we can't help screaming at this. It's twice as funny as Ronnie's high dive what with Mr. Turner sitting in the creek, with the water up to his neck and one ski still clamped to his foot. He doesn't stay there long, though. He flounders about till he can stand up and wades ashore, climbing up into the snow which must feel warm to him in comparison to the icy water.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughs Ronnie. "Dad didn't do as well as I did, did he?"

Man, oh man! Is _this_ a surprise? Here we've just begun to feel bad for laughing outright at Ronnie's father and Ronnie busts a rib himself. That makes us feel better ... but Mr. Turner's coming up the hill, leaving the skis behind, so mad the water almost turns to steam on him.

"We'd better beat it!" advises Mack.

"No, fellows! Stay here!" pleads Ronnie.

"We've got to stick!" I orders. "We can't run out on Ronnie now!"

So we stand our ground, expecting to get our heads taken off the minute Mr. Turner gets to us. He's a sorry looking sight as he clambers up the hill, falling down a couple times in the snow when he loses his footing. Mr. Turner's hanging onto his dignity, though, for dear life ... trying his darnedest to preserve it. He's been humiliated in the eyes of his son and before a bunch of fellows who've come from the best homes in town, if I do say it. But all I can think of is what my Dad told me about doing business with Mr. Turner, in warning me not to make him sore. And now I've gone and done it!

"Gee, Dad!" says Ronnie, when Mr. Turner, puffing hard and teeth chattering, reaches the top of the hill. "If you knew how funny you looked!"

"I'm c-c-cold!" answers Mr. Turner. "This is no l-l-laughing m-m-matter! You b-b-boys had no b-b-business...."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Turner," I apologizes, thinking of my father and hoping to straighten things out.

"S-s-sorry, n-n-nothing!" stammers Mr. Turner. "You'll b-b-be t-t-telling this all over t-t-town...!"

"Sure they will," says Ronnie. "It's too good to keep."

Mr. Turner glares furiously. "W-w-when I w-w-want your opinion, son, I'll ask f-for it!" he returns.

Have you ever been so nervous that you can't keep your face straight even when you're scared? That's the way we feel and we commence to snicker again, one fellow starting off the others. It's some comical sight, Mr. Turner, shaking like a wet rag on a clothesline.

"I've g-g-got to be g-g-getting to the h-h-house," he says. "B-b-boys, p-p-please d-d-don't s-s-say anything about this! K-k-keep m-m-mum!"

It's so funny to hear Mr. Turner trying to talk that Mack laughs right out.

"Maybe," suggests Ronnie, taking his father's arm, "if you'd let the boys use the hill...?"

"Yes!" takes up Mr. Turner, giving us an appealing glance. "If I'll l-l-let you use this h-h-hill for a s-s-slide, w-w-will you b-b-boys keep this quiet?"

We look at one another and are we happy? There's a nodding of heads and I says: "That's a bargain, Mr. Turner! Nobody hears about this if we can play on the hill!"

"M-m-my w-w-word is my b-b-bond," says Ronnie's Dad. "C-c-come on, Ronald, b-b-before I s-s-suffer from exposure!"

"Goodbye, fellows!" calls Ronnie, and winks. "I'll be seeing you soon!"

"Goodbye, Ronnie!" we shout after him, deciding right then and there that he's a regular guy in the making.

That night, when my Dad finds where I've been he says, "How come?" and my answer is: "Oh, Mr. Turner just decided, if he didn't let us use the hill, that everybody in town would think he was all _wet_...."

"I don't quite understand," my Dad replies, but that's nothing--because no one, outside of our bunch, understands to this day.

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