CHAPTER X.
SKIERS AND “FROTH-BLOWERS”
Sibell had her second lesson in ski-ing on the third day after their arrival.
On the second day it snowed so heavily that in the afternoon it developed into quite a blizzard. But in a winter sports centre fresh snow is always hailed with delight by old and young, and the morrow, with its delights, is eagerly looked forward to.
The morning turned out to be perfect, the thermometer down to zero and the sky cloudless, with a warm, health-giving sun, while deep in the valley lay the dark rain-clouds, rendering the lower altitudes damp and gloomy.
The ever-faithful John took his charges up the steep hill behind the hotel to the gentle slopes at the rear of that range of farm buildings known as the Stock-Hut, and, halting suddenly, addressed the girl in his quaint Swiss-English:
“Now, Mees Dare, I will put your skis [pronounced shees] on, here. The snow is too deep for you to walk farther.”
While Otway was busy clipping on his own skis, John knelt down and fixed Sibell’s, she balancing herself on one foot and holding on to his shoulder. When the pair were ready to climb the slope, Sibell cried:
“Good heavens, John! I can’t get up there on these things.”
“Oh, yes, you will, mees,” replied the good-looking Swiss expert. “It is quite easy. I will go and make a track for you.”
Then, after a lot of exertion, she slipped and fell in the snow several times, always being picked up quickly by the alert John.
“Really, Sibell!” exclaimed her lover in a low tone. “I believe you are sitting down purposely, so that your good-looking guide may come to the rescue. I’m right out of it!”
He was unaware that John overheard his words, and was secretly amused. But John was quite used to hearing such talk between young loving couples who were his pupils on the snow.
As the lesson commenced, John, by giving demonstrations, explained clearly to both of them the art of ski-ing. Sibell being rather timid, as are all girls at first, he took her by the arm and steadied her as they glided together down the slope. Then Sibell lost her balance and fell head foremost into the soft snow, her skis in the air.
“Well!” asked John, in feigned surprise. “For what purpose do you fall, mees?”
“Why, to sit down and stop myself!” replied the girl, laughing heartily as he assisted her to her feet again.
A moment later she fell again, whereupon John said:
“Now, there was surely no necessity for that! Try and get up yourself, but remember, when on a slope like this, never let your skis look downhill. You must turn him so that he looks sideways uphill,” he added. A peculiarity of his English was that to him all skis were masculine. “Otherwise he will slip, and you will not be able to stop him,” he added.
After Sibell had lain in the snow a minute or two, twisting and turning her skis in all sorts of contortions, to the great amusement of Otway, she at last managed to right herself with the aid of John’s ready hand.
“Now, mees!” he said, after she had stood to recover her breath. “We will try the stem turn. This is a very important turn to learn, as it helps one in all the more complicated ones. Look! Watch me!”
He then glided down the slope a short distance and demonstrated what he meant, as the lovers watched and admired the ease and gracefulness of his ski-ing.
“Now, mees, will you try?” he said, on returning to her side, placing his gloves together in his belt.
Taking courage, the girl started slowly to descend, John following her closely, with her lover watching.
“Now, right foot forward!” ordered the lithe Swiss. “Bring it round, and press outwards on your heel. On your heel! Now, hard!”
Alas! by the time the last word of command reached her, she found herself in a hopeless muddle, and fell half covered in the deep snow with both skis practically hidden.
The first time one does a stem turn it always puts one in difficulty. But it is only a matter of knack and balance, and is soon easily learnt.
John was up with her in a moment, flying down and doing a perfect “telemark,” by which he stopped dead at the exact spot, where he stood for a second laughing heartily at her plight.
“Never mind, Mees Dare!” he said encouragingly. “You will find it quite easy after one or two failures.”
“John!” she cried, with feigned resentment. “If you laugh at me when I’m in this awful muddle I’ll loathe you!”
“Oh, please don’t say that!” John pleaded. “You started very fine, but when you commenced the turn you leaned inwards, instead of outwards.”
“Brin! You’re laughing at me!” shouted the girl to her lover. “You wait till you try it!”
“Now, mees,” said John, “I will show you again”; and he made a graceful stem turn just near her, pointing out the fault which all beginners make.
Six times she tried it and failed, but on the seventh she succeeded in turning quite well, and repeated it twice without falling.
Then, her hour’s lesson being up, they returned to the hotel. Otway was to learn on the following morning.
That day proved a somewhat eventful one for Gurnigel.
When one speaks of the winter sunshine, those uninitiated into winter sports in Switzerland naturally think of the Riviera. But in the Alps they have, in winter, sun hotter than at Nice, with clear blue sky, even though the thermometer will show ten or more degrees of frost. It is one of the phenomena of the Alps that one gets sun-tanned amidst the snow.
As they entered the hotel half-an-hour before luncheon, Otway noticed, pinned to one of the high pillars of the entrance hall, a notice headed:
“Froth-Blowers! Emergency Notice! A meeting of the Ancient Order of Froth-Blowers will be held in the recreation-room at 2.30 p.m. to-day. All Blowers are to attend.--Blaster No. 24.”
It struck Otway and Sibell as amusing, and, laughing, they passed into the restaurant to lunch, in ignorance of what was in active progress.
“What are the Froth-Blowers?” asked the girl as they sat together.
“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” replied her lover. “It’s a widespread society of Englishmen all over the world, They wear silver cuff-links with dark-blue initials--A.O.F.B.--as badge, while their subscriptions of five shillings for life membership go to alleviate the sufferings of poor children. It is a band of patriotic and philanthropic English to help the helpless.”
“I wonder why an emergency meeting has been called?” remarked Lady Wyndcliffe. “I know quite a dozen ‘Blowers’ who wear their links both by day and at evening. Woe betide a blower who forgets his cuff-links, for he has to pay for the refreshment of everyone present. That is one rule of the Order.”
“Brin, you’ll have to be a ‘Blower’!” laughed Sibell merrily. “I’ll pay the five shillings subscription for you!”
And then the subject dropped.
At half-past two, sixteen young, athletic Englishmen assembled in a side-room where games were played on wet or foggy days--which were, indeed, very few at Gurnigel--under the presiding of the “Blaster,” an elderly, round-faced man named Gordon Mitchell. A “Blaster,” be it said, is the title accorded to a Froth-Blower who obtains twenty-five recruits to the Order, and in reward he wears silver insignia behind the lapel of his coat.
Five minutes’ grace was accorded to late comers. Then Mr. Mitchell exhibited his badge, closed the door, locked it, and turning to the young men assembled, he said:
“Fellow Blowers, we have a decision to make, but it must not be hasty or ill-considered. We are all of us Englishmen, and there must be no hatred of race. This is a matter of broad principles. In this hotel there is a certain man who must be taught a lesson--and a severe one. The man in question has insulted no fewer than eight young English ladies. To one he has written an abominable letter, which I will not read, but I will hand it to you. The brother of that young girl is present. In another case he followed a young English lady, who is here with her mother, into the wood, seized her, kissed her, and, in consequence of her shrieks, another English lady had to go to her rescue. Now, Blowers, shall we tolerate this?”
“No!” they all shouted with one accord. “Let’s out him!”
“I agree,” said the grey-haired man very calmly. “The man’s name is Ira Frank, and he comes from Frankfort. We have discovered, after some inquiries, that he is a sensuous libertine and hunter of women. I have shown this letter to the director of the hotel, who, in consequence, has requested him to leave by the next automobile, which leaves for Berne at 3.30.”
“He won’t leave till I’ve had something to say!” cried the offended girl’s brother, a young London medical student, whereupon all his friends agreed, and discussed what should be done.
“Blowers!” cried Mr. Mitchell. “Silence, please! First, not a hand must be laid upon him, for he is a German. And, before anything is done, I shall go to Dr. Rothe, the head of the German party of visitors, and tell him what we have discovered, show him the letter, and inform him of our intentions.”
“Yes!” cried a voice. “Let’s pelt him out of it! He sha’n’t interfere with our girls again! He’s tried Glorious Gurnigel--and he won’t come back here a second time!” Whereat there was a peal of laughter.
“He’ll try and slip away, boys,” said another. “There must be scouts round the hotel. I’ll lead you!”
“Not until I have heard Dr. Rothe’s views,” cried Mr. Mitchell, holding up a warning hand. “We might easily create a riot here, and surely we must not do that! Reassemble here in half an hour, and I will tell you the result of my negotiations.”
And the square-built, grey-haired man went off to find the leader of the German winter sports party.
Five minutes later he was alone in his private sitting-room with a pleasant-faced, polite, middle-aged German, who, when he heard the facts and was shown the offending letter, sat amazed.
The letter was written on the culprit’s business paper, bearing his Frankfort address and signed by him.
“Well,” said the doctor in good English, “it is a consolation that he is an outsider. He is not of our party. He asked to join it, and we consented.”
“I know we are treading upon rather thin ice,” Mr. Mitchell said, “but the young Englishmen here are determined that he leave in ignominy. Before any action is taken, I would request you to consult with some of the more influential members of your party and ascertain their views. I would venture to point out this is no racial hatred, for, had an Englishman acted as he has done, we should have taken the law into our own hands in exactly the same manner.”
“I quite understand, and, on behalf of my party, I thank you very sincerely, Mr. Mitchell,” answered the German, shaking the Englishman’s hand. “If you will wait for ten minutes, I will return and tell you our views. Of course there will be no violence?”
“None whatever, I assure you. He will be only taught a lesson,” was the Englishman’s answer.
Ten minutes later the burly German doctor re-entered the room.
“We entirely agree that the fellow should be taught a lesson,” he said. “With one eye we shall laugh at his shame, but with the other we shall, alas! cry because he is a German.”
“Then it is agreed,” said Mr. Mitchell, again taking the German’s hand.
“The relations between my friends and the English visitors are, thanks to yourself, most cordial, Mr. Mitchell,” the doctor said. “You have done everything to remove any little prejudices your friends may have had against us. And I assure you we all heartily appreciate it.”
The Englishman thanked him, expressed regret that the unpleasant incident had occurred, and then went at once to where the Froth-Blowers were awaiting the decision.
In a few brief words he told them of his negotiation and the decision of the Germans, whereup a dozen of them rushed away to obtain ammunition in the shape of eggs--which they bought from the stores, there being no stale ones--decayed tomatoes, oranges, and lemons, while others went out and gathered filth in newspapers. Then, in five minutes, all the “Blowers” were posted round the hotel awaiting the fellow’s appearance.
Sibell was standing with Brinsley upon the balcony above the main entrance to the hotel, and, noticing the sudden rush of twenty or so young fellows, said:
“I wonder what all this excitement is!”
Scarcely had the words left her mouth than there was a shout, “Blowers!” and next moment she saw the dark-eyed stranger, who had whispered to her in the corridor the other night, dashing down the snow-clad hill on a small toboggan.
In a moment twenty athletic young fellows were after him. The brother of the girl to whom he had written the letter, a good sprinter, took a short cut and seized him, whereupon the others pelted the culprit mercilessly with all sorts of missiles and filth, to the glee and hilarity of a hundred or so lookers-on.
“Take that, you German hog!” cried the angry brother, clapping some filth in a newspaper full over the fellow’s face. “That will teach you to write your accursed love-letters in future.”
The scoundrel had lost his hat, and his hair was covered with broken eggs and rotten tomatoes. His clothes were such a mass of disgusting filth that they could never be worn again, and the last seen of him was his staggering down the hill to the jeers of the crowd, both Germans and English.
Truly it was an exciting afternoon in Gurnigel.