Well, we found this true enough, for the ski-running gave us a lot of trouble, as Tom had hinted.
The shoes are peculiar-looking things. They are about six or seven feet in length, some four inches in width, and are made of thin, strong, seasoned wood, half an inch thick, running to a point in front, the 'toes' turning up, of course, for otherwise they would catch in the snow. One stands in the middle, inserting the foot in a strap, which closes round the instep. Then one slides along the surface of the snow in the best way one can—which, at first, is a very awkward way indeed.
We drove down to a shooting-lodge, near Lavrik, and then, having lunched, we called for snowshoes and strapped ourselves into them.
'Now then,' said experienced Tom, 'we will just walk off towards the gully, where there are some nice easy slopes for you to begin upon.'
With these words Tom glided away upon his shoes; it looked the easiest and most delightful thing in the world. Tom moved forward like a bird upon the wing, slid a dozen yards away, turned, and came back to us.
'Lovely, isn't it?' he said. 'Come along, just skate forward; keep the front part of the ski well apart, or the points will cross, and you will come to a sudden stop.'
Billy made a few awkward slides forward; one of his shoes went south-east and the other south-west; one of his feet left the earth as though it would soar heavenwards. Billy sat down with some violence.
'Here, I say, that won't do,' he observed.
'What made the things behave like that?' I said.
'Keep the ends apart'—Tom laughed—'but not so far as that; point them both the same way, but keep them six inches or so from one another.'