p? But Tom was bent double with heartless
mirth, and I concluded that probably he knew best about such disasters.

'Will he be all right?' I gasped.

'Rather,' Tom replied. 'He will struggle up in a minute.'

Billy did struggle up. There was a kind of upheaval in the white
hill-side, and from the midst of the eruption appeared our William,
gasping, angry, blinking, spluttering--snow in his mouth, in his
nostrils, in his eyes. Snow filled his ears, his pockets, his boots; had
crept between his neck and his collar; his hair was white with it, and
in the midst of this mass of snowflakes blazed two angry eyes, which
shot murderous glances at us because we laughed. Billy said nothing--he
could not until he had got rid of the snow which filled his mouth. When
he spoke at last he only gasped, 'All right, Bobby; your turn now. You
will think it awfully funny when you have been buried alive in wet
snow!'

'I'm sorry,' I said; 'but you did look so frightfully funny coming out
of the hill-side in a kind of volcanic eruption.'

'Oh, don't mention it!' said angry William. 'I see Tom's amused too; I
suppose he was never a beginner! Perhaps he will catch his foot in a
root one of these times, and may I be there to see!'

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