Mystery at the Ski Jump by Carolyn Keene Page B

as a bullet, only to rise into the air, soaring like a bird, with arms outstretched. He made a perfect landing.
    “Good boy!” cried Mr. Drew.
    “That was beautiful!” Nancy exclaimed. “I wish I could jump the way he does.”
    “That’s my client—perhaps he’ll give you some instruction,” said Mr. Drew. “Chuck—Chuck Wilson—come over here!”
    The slender youth waved. He stomped across to them, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight.
    After Nancy’s father had completed introductions, Chuck asked, “Do you ski, Nancy?”
    “Yes. But not very well.”
    “Perhaps I can give you some pointers,” Chuck suggested eagerly. “Would you like to come and ski with me?”
    “A good idea,” Mr. Drew agreed. “I’ll leave my daughter with you and get back to work. Take good care of her!”
    “I sure will!” the young man answered in a tone that made Nancy blush. They waved good-by to Mr. Drew. Then Chuck Wilson seized Nancy’s hand and pulled her toward the base of the jump. “I must see this next jump,” he said.
    The skier made a graceful take-off. Then something went wrong. The man’s legs spread-eagled on landing and one ski caught in the icy snow, throwing him for a nasty spill.
    The watching crowd gasped, then was silent. A spectator, a short distance away from Nancy and Chuck, rushed toward the man. “You idiot!” he yelled. “What will happen to Mitzi if you kill yourself?”
    Hearing the name Mitzi, Nancy elbowed her way quickly through the crowd. She was too late. By the time she reached the spot, the unfortunate jumper and his friend had disappeared.
    “Why did you run off?” Chuck asked as he reached Nancy’s side.
    Nancy apologized. “I’m looking for someone. Can we go to the ski lodge? Perhaps he’s there.”
    “Okay,” Chuck said, leading the way.
    The lodge was crowded with skiers but the men were not inside. Nancy asked Chuck if he knew the skier’s name.
    “No. But say, would his initials help?”
    “Oh yes ! Where did you see them?”
    “On his skis—if they were his. Big letters.”
    Nancy’s heart skipped a beat. “What were they?”
    “R. I. C.”
    Nancy’s spine tingled as if someone had put snow down her back. Could this be Mitzi Channing’s husband? And the other man—was he, perhaps, Sidney Boyd?

CHAPTER IX
    A Disastrous Jump
    CHUCK WILSON chatted cheerfully as he and Nancy went up the chair lift to the station where they were to begin their ski lesson. But Nancy’s thoughts were far away. She kept wondering about R. I. Channing and whether her hunch was correct. Was Mitzi Channing’s husband really in Montreal? Was he the mystery jumper?
    “Maybe I should have tried harder to find him,” she chided herself.
    The ski instructor noticed her faraway look. When they reached their destination, he said:
    “Time for class! Suppose you take off from here. I want to watch you do parallel turns down the practice slope.”
    Nancy gave a quick shove with her poles and glided away.
    “Not bad. Not bad at all!” Chuck called as she completed her trial run. “You have self-confidence and a fine sense of balance. Have you ever done any wedeln?”
    “Yes,” Nancy admitted. “But not very well.”
    “We can try some steeper slopes tomorrow,” her companion said, smiling. “You shouldn’t have any trouble. Now take another run. Remember always to lean away from the hill. Keep your skis together all the time. You need more of what the French call—abandon.”
    “Abandon?”
    “You know—relax.” Chuck smiled. “Bend your knees, keep your weight forward. You have a natural rhythm. Use it when you wedeln. It is just half turning in rhythm all the way down the hill.”
    When the lesson was over, Nancy turned to her instructor. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “Tomorrow I’d like to try some jumping. But now I mustn’t take any more of your time.”
    “My time is yours,” Chuck said. “I have no more lessons scheduled for today.”
    Nancy was