had poised himself upon the top of the hill like a bird about to take
wing. He had allowed his _ski_ to tip over the edge, and in an instant
he was in full flight, going at nearly thirty miles an hour over the
slippery, even surface of the snow, bending slightly forward, keeping
his two shoes straight as arrows, and heading, true as a bullet, for the
point which he had fixed upon.

'How easy it looks,' said Billy, 'and how delicious it must feel to go
through the air like that, eh?'

I answered nothing, for I felt that what mattered most to me at present
was whether the snow was nice and soft for the somersaults which I felt
sure I was about to perform. No question for me, as yet, of a delightful
thirty mile an hour excursion through air. I was going beneath the snow,
and knew it.

However, Billy led off. Tom came back, and placed him carefully, saw
that his snowshoes were straight at starting, gave him his final
instructions. 'Don't bear too much forward, or you will over-balance. If
you feel yourself going, sit down; that will save you a header under the
snow; but you needn't be afraid of hurting yourself in any case, the
snow is very soft.'

For a few moments I really thought Billy was about to pass through the
ordeal with success. He glided down the first twenty yards of the hill
in a manner which recalled the impression of 'easiness' which Tom's
skill had aroused. Then something happened which inclined our poor
William to direct his right snowshoe towards his left one. Instantly the
left one, like an angry dog, resented the liberty, and turned upon its
companion. They crossed; then disaster overtook William Onslow. For an
instant he suggested a catherine-wheel at the Crystal Palace fireworks;
he went three or four times head over heels, his snowshoes looking like
the arms of a windmill as he went round. Then he stopped, and it seemed
as though a sort of explosion had taken place. There was no sound, but
the snow was cast up on all sides to a great height, and Billy
disappeared. All that could be seen of our unfortunate William was the
point of a snowshoe sticking out of his snow-grave, slowly waggling to
and fro as though to remind us that Billy might still be found alive
somewhere down below if any one thought it worth while to look for him.

Until I glanced at Tom's face, I felt anxious about Billy. Could he
breathe down there? I wondered; and in how many pieces should we find
the poor chap when we dug him u