We soothed him as best we could, but he informed me that the only consoling thing I could do would be to take my turn, while he watched. There was nothing for it. I braced myself up for the enterprise, took my position at the edge of the slope, adjusted the toes of my ski, and started.
Was I a bird in air? Oh, the delight of it, this rapid passing through crisp air! and how well I was doing it, ten—twenty—fifty yards in safety! Why, it was quite easy. How disappointed dear old Billy would be! Then, suddenly, a check, a whirl through the air, a sense of chill and suffocation, blindness, deafness. What had happened?—Where was I?—What was this hard thing in my mouth? Why was I standing on my head? Where on earth were my arms and legs?
I found all these useful members presently; I also discovered that I was chewing the end of one of my snowshoes. I seemed to spend a century in making these discoveries, but I believe it was in reality a short half-minute. Then I struggled up into the light of day. I spluttered the snow out of my mouth and looked around. One of my ski had finished the hill-shoot 'on its own,' and lay on the level far below. Close by stood Billy Onslow, behaving in a manner which provoked in me a momentary feeling of hatred for him. He was loudly roaring with laughter, doubling and undoubling himself in exaggerated mirth. I felt that the situation was not in the least funny, and that Billy was simply—and in very bad taste—taking his revenge.
"I struggled up."
And that was how we began to learn ski-running.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
IX.—INSTRUMENTS OF PALESTINE.
