painted green. The paint was peeling. Nick knocked his clamps loose with one of his ski sticks and kicked off the skis.
“We might as well carry them up here,” he said.
He climbed the steep road with the skis on his shoulder, kicking his heel nails into the icy footing. He heard George breathing and kicking in his heels just behind him. They stacked the skis against the side of the inn and slapped the snow off each other’s trousers, stamped their boots clean, and went in.
Inside it was quite dark. A big porcelain stove shone in the corner of the room. There was a low ceiling. Smooth benches back of dark, wine-stained tables were along each side of the rooms. Two Swiss sat over their pipes and two decies of cloudy new wine next to the stove. The boys took off their jackets and sat against the wall on the other side of the stove. A voice in the next room stopped singing and a girl in a blue apron came in through the door to see what they wanted to drink.
“A bottle of Sion,” Nick said. “Is that all right, Gidge?”
“Sure,” said George. “You know more about wine than I do. I like any of it.”
The girl went out.
“There’s nothing really can touch skiing, is there?” Nick said. “The way it feels when you first drop off on a long run.”
“Huh,” said George. “It’s too swell to talk about.”
The girl brought the wine in and they had trouble with the cork. Nick finally opened it. The girl went out and they heard her singing in German in the next room.
“Those specks of cork in it don’t matter,” said Nick.
“I wonder if she’s got any cake.”
“Let’s find out.”
The girl came in and Nick noticed that her apron covered swellingly her pregnancy. I wonder why I didn’t see that when she first came in, he thought.
“What were you singing?” he asked her.
