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.