“I couldn’t get started down hill without wanting to, could I?” he questions.
“If you did, we’d grab you,” I tells him. “Now try it again. Move your right foot forward. Keep your body inclined just a bit. That’s the way. You look just like a skier now! Doesn’t he, fellows?”
“Exactly!” they agree.
“Don’t move and spoil it!” directs Mack who can’t help making sport of things.
Ronnie looks kind of bewildered.
“Go ahead,” says I. “Don’t mind what that boob says. He’s a bum skier anyway.”
“I am, am I?” challenges Mack.
And down he goes over the hill, making the first tracks in the glistening snow. It’s breathless to watch him as he gains speed, whizzes across the old Strawtown Pike and up the embankment where he comes to a stop. He’s a black dot to us now as he turns to wave his hands and then start the long journey back.
“That’s wonderful!” breathes Ronnie. “Oh, if I could only do that!”
“You’ve got to creep before you can ski,” I instructs. “Don’t get impatient. A good skier wasn’t built ... I mean—made—in a day. We’ll come out again ... that is ... if your Dad doesn’t stop us.”