“Dad’s never had any time for sports,” explains Ronnie. “He’s been too busy. He thinks young men should ... er ... expend their energies on more worthwhile things....”
“Well, I ... er ... don’t exactly agree with him,” says I. “But, of course, we can’t all think the same.”
“All work and no play,” recites Tommy, winking at the rest of us, “makes Dad a dull boy.”
“He means ‘any Dad’,” I hastens to explain. “Now you just ski along beside me till you get the hang of this. Then we’ll try a little slope back here which I’m sure you can safely ... er ... negotiate.”
“Safely—what?” Ronnie asks.
“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?”