“It’s quite a responsibility all right,” admits Mack, “but I say it’s worth the risk. We certainly can run as fast as Mr. Turner.”
“Not if he sees us first,” I warns, “so we’d better keep our eyes peeled. My old pair of skis ought to be good enough for Ronnie to learn on, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” rejoins Tommy. “He’ll probably break ’em anyway—hit a tree or something.”
“Aren’t you cheerful?” I razzes. “Well, that’s not going to happen if I have to go down the hill ahead of him and bend the trees out of the way!”
There’s a familiar figure sitting on a fallen log and waiting for us when we climb over the fence and sneak up the hill behind the Turner house. Ronnie jumps up when he spies us, as tickled as a kid, who’s about to try something he’s never done before.
“I—I thought maybe you wouldn’t come.”
“Ronnie—we are here!” says Mack, officially and solemnly. “Your lesson is about to begin!”
“But first,” breaks in Tommy, “how many miles is your father from here?”
“He’s downtown,” reassures Ronnie. “He’s hardly ever back before five o’clock.”
“Then I guess the coast is clear,” says Eddie.