“I’d never thought of that,” says Ronnie, soberly. “That’s worth considering, isn’t it?”
And he sits on the porch steps after that.
Ronnie’s Dad is as big and blustering as Ronnie is timid and quiet. And talk about dignified! Mr. Sylvester B. Turner expects everyone to bow and scrape before him since he’s the richest man in town and owns the biggest factory besides the biggest hill. Everything has to be big with Mr. Turner. That’s his style. The biggest house, the biggest car, the biggest noise ... and the biggest boob for a son. That’s how we feel, anyhow, after Mr. Turner’s high and mighty manner and Ronnie’s yelling: “Dad, look what the fellahs are doing!”
Are we downhearted? You can just imagine! Being chased off old Randolph Hill is like having our sleds and skis taken away from us on account of there being no other decent place. We could understand this high hat business if Mr. Turner was using the hill for anything else but it slopes off for over a mile behind his big house, going down on one side to Mitchell Creek and down the other to a meadow that’s fenced in with an old rail fence. We’ve been sliding and skiing straight down the hill, though, the long way, which carries us across the old Strawtown Pike and up against a bank that finally stops us. It’s one grand ride, whether you take it by sled or by skis ... only, of course, it’s lots more exciting on skis. We figured this year that we’d grade the bank, too, and use it for a jumping off place. Whether you know it or not, ski jumping is the real sport. You may land on your head or back or some other part of your anatomy but that’s half the sport! And here Mr. Turner is so stingy that he closes his estate to the whole neighborhood!
“You must remember, James,” my father says to me, “Mr. Turner has a perfect right to do this. It’s his property. Old Mr. Randolph was very nice to let you boys use the hill but you shouldn’t feel too hard against Mr. Turner because he refuses. After all, it can’t be so enjoyable to have a mob of kids tracking all over. Maybe Mrs. Turner is very high strung. Maybe their boy is nervous and can’t stand strenuous exercise or excitement. Maybe that’s why Mr. Turner bought the place, so he could be off by himself with his family. You must take this all into consideration.”
“I still think he’s just doing it to be mean,” says I. “He likes to put on airs. As for his son, if Ronnie’s mother would let him be himself, we’d make a man out of him in no time!”
My Dad throws back his head and let loose a laugh.
“You fellows had better leave well enough alone,” he warns. “You ought to know by this time that Ronald has a ‘Don’t Trespass’ sign hanging on him, too. And since Mr. Turner has phoned me and complained about your being on his property, I don’t care to have any further trouble with our new neighbor. You mustn’t forget, either, that my company does considerable business with Mr. Turner’s factory. We can’t afford to have Mr. Turner down on us.”
“You’re right, Dad,” I agrees. “I guess I’m still peeved, that’s all. Made me feel like I wanted to get even. The other guys feel that way, too. Some of ’em were going to take it out on Ronnie—but I’ll have a talk with ’em and fix it up. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would interfere with your business.”