Skiing, as the boy from the land of no snow was to discover, was not the easy sport he had imagined. Old Steve Turner, recreational director of Seldon Prep, had smiled as he had listened to Reed’s “confidential” proposal.
“But why do you want to learn how to ski when the other fellows aren’t around?”
The Southerner’s face flushed. “Because I’ve been laughed at enough,” he retorted, and felt sorry that he had even brought himself to speak to the Coach. Northerners were all alike—old or young.
“Perhaps,” suggested Old Steve, observing the youth closely, “if you learned how to laugh at yourself before you tried to learn how to ski, you’d get along better.”
“I guess,” was Reed’s rejoinder, “you folks up here have a different sense of humor than I have.”
But the upshot of Reed’s request that he be taught how to ski in private, was the granting of a concession by Coach Turner wherein Reed was to be excused from his last two study hours for skiing practice on the promise that he would make them up out of school.
“Winter sports are all new to me,” Reed explained, his heart warming to the Coach’s unexpected kindness. “The other fellows are taking advantage of it. But I’ve stood just about as much as I’m going to!”
“That’s the spirit!” Coach Turner encouraged.
Reed Markham had always been a conundrum to Seldon’s recreational director, he was secretly glad to see the boy venturing from his shell.
“You get some skis,” the Coach proposed, “and I’ll meet you for an hour every day on the old ball field.” Then the Coach’s face widened in a grin. “But, remember, son—you’re setting out to learn a strictly northern sport. You can’t take this skiing knowledge back to Georgia with you and do anything with it!”