Читать книгу Round the World in the "Golden Gleaner" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3

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“Quite a decent-looking kind of show!” declared Gerald Stacey.

“Not so dusty!” agreed Peter Meadowes. “Looks all right from the outside. What’s it like inside?”

It was the chums’ first glimpse of the pension “Quatre Vents”. It was also their first visit to Switzerland, and so far—from the moment their train had arrived at Lausanne—almost everything they had seen was of the nature of a favourable surprise.

Also it was the last holiday they were likely to have for quite a long time. They were both a little over sixteen. They had both been to the same school—a well-known educational establishment in the West Country—and were due to join their first ship, the Golden Gleaner, owned by the well-known firm of Whatmough, Duvant and Co., on the 25th of January.

Gerald was an only son, although he had two sisters, Joan and Peggy. They lived—except when he was at school—with their parents in a fairly large house in Balham, where, to all intents and purposes, Peter Meadowes was one of the family.

Peter was an orphan. He could hardly remember his parents, who had died when he was quite young. Under the terms of a Trust he was in receipt of enough money to pay for his keep and education—and very little more until he became of age.

Their friendship started almost at their first day at boarding school, five years ago. Before the summer of that year had passed something happened to cement their bonds of comradeship.

It was at Newquay, a Cornish seaside resort. The school was having a half-term holiday. Quite a number of boys were surf-bathing, presumably under alert supervision, but only one youth saw that Gerald Stacey was being carried out of his depth by the undertow of a receding wave.

At that time Gerald couldn’t swim.

The boys were kicking up quite a row, and only Peter, who was but an indifferent swimmer, heard his strangled cry for aid.

Unhesitatingly he plunged through the surf to reach and grasp his chum by getting behind him and taking a firm hold of the drowning youth. Fortunately for them both, Gerald did not attempt to struggle once he realized that his head was being held above water.

Getting back into shallow water was a very different proposition. The undertow of each successive wave was taking the pair of them farther and farther from shore.

It might have ended in a double fatality. There were no boats. Even had there been any, it would have been doubtful if one could be launched without the almost certain risk of swamping by the crested breakers.

Then one of the masters, alarmed by the other boys’ shouts, came headlong to the rescue.

Seizing one of the lifebuoys thoughtfully provided by the local authorities, and handing an end of the attached line to some of the bystanders, he plunged into the surf.

Fortunately for all concerned, the men tending the lifeline knew what to do. Without impeding the rescuer’s progress, they paid out the long, thin rope as he swam with powerful strokes towards the two drifting youths.

Reaching them, he placed the buoy over Gerald’s head and shoulders, warning him that he must not on any account try to pull himself out of the water. Then, receiving an assurance that Peter could maintain a grip upon the buoy, the master shouted to his helpers to haul in carefully.

As they did so, the sports master swam within a yard or so of the buoy, keeping a wary eye on the two youths in case one or both might relax his grasp.

Luckily nothing of that sort happened; and though both youths collapsed when assisted ashore—having swallowed too generous a quantity of the Atlantic Ocean—they were little the worse by the time they arrived back at the school.

Incidentally, both Mr. Hughes, the games master, and Peter received certificates from the Royal Humane Society for their respective parts in the rescue operations.

Before that eventful summer was over Gerald had not only learnt to swim, but could beat his chum at it over any distance up to two hundred yards.

It was Mr. Stacey who suggested a holiday in the New Year before the two chums joined their first ship.

“I can manage a week or ten days,” he announced. “Where would you two like to go?”

“On the Broads, Father!” replied Gerald promptly.

“Not in mid-winter, thank you!” objected his parent. “Even if one could hire a craft, it’s much too cold. And there are your mother and sisters to be taken into consideration. I might also remind you that when you go to sea professionally you’re likely to get all the cold weather you want—and perhaps very much more!”

“Why not Switzerland?” suggested his son.

“It’s pretty cold there, I should imagine,” rejoined Mr. Stacey.

“Not really, sir!” countered Peter, speaking for the first time during the discussion. “One of our fellows at school—Briggs Major—was at Davos last January. He said it was cold but somehow one doesn’t feel it.”

“It’s a dry cold and not a damp one,” supplemented Gerald. “I remember Briggs Major telling us that he never wore an overcoat. He didn’t even bother to take one with him!”

The other members of the family supported Gerald and Peter in their second choice.

“We’ll see,” declared Mr. Stacey guardedly. “I’ll look in at a Travel Agency on my way home from the City to-morrow.”

Replies to his inquiries were evidently of a satisfactory nature; for when Mr. Stacey returned on the following late afternoon he looked particularly pleased.

“The agency staff was most helpful. Everything’s cut and dried. I’ve booked accommodation at a pension called—now what was it? ... I have it written down somewhere ... Yes, here it is: the place is called ‘Maison Quatre Vents’——”

“That sounds decidedly draughty to me, my dear,” remarked Mrs. Stacey.

“But all four winds couldn’t be blowing at the same time,” countered her husband. “And quite possibly it will be calm during most of our stay. That’s what the agent told me.”

“Where is the place, Dad?” asked Gerald.

“I was coming to that when I was interrupted, my boy! Here we are: ‘Maison Quatre Vents’ at Chamoisette, which is only twenty kilometres from Lausanne. It’s run by a Monsieur André Dubois, who, I have been given to understand, speaks English fluently.”

“But the rest of the staff: do they speak English?” asked Mrs. Stacey, conjuring up language difficulties. “The owner or manager—which is he, George?”

“I don’t know,” confessed her husband. “Quite possibly he’s both. But you were about to ask me something. Oh! The rest of the staff? Honestly, I don’t know whether they are linguists. I should imagine most, if not all of them, are so. We’ll find that out later. What really matters is this: I suggested a week, but the agent persuaded me to extend our holiday to ten days. So I have booked rooms from the 10th to the 20th of this month. We’ll be leaving here on the 9th and be home again by the 21st. That will leave four days clear before Peter and Gerald join their ship at Southampton.”

“Are we going by air to Switzerland?” asked Gerald hopefully.

His father shook his head.

“Too expensive,” he declared.

So that was that!

As is generally the case, the task of making the bulk of the preparations fell upon the lady of the house. It was Mrs. Stacey who saw to the packing of their clothes other than those they were to wear for the journey. In addition—providing for the unlikely event of their return being delayed—she had placed the budding cadets’ sea-going kit into their trunks, and had given them definite instructions as to where their uniforms had been hung up ready to put on when the momentous time arrived.

It was to be a momentous time—leaving home to go to sea. It eclipsed the more immediate prospect of a Swiss holiday, although both lads were tremendously keen on that too.

The Staceys’ holiday started under most favourable auspices. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Their house was locked up and the key left with a neighbour, who promised to look in every day just to see that everything was all right.

In addition, Mr. Stacey notified the police that his house would be unoccupied for eleven days, while tradesmen had been instructed not to call during that period.

The sea-passage was smooth and almost uneventful. The weather was fine and somewhat misty, the sea as calm as the proverbial mill-pond.

Gerald and Peter watched the white cliffs of Dover recede and disappear in the mists.

Little did they know that more than a twelvemonth would elapse before they saw those chalk cliffs again!

Then followed a long train journey through most of the long night, in a wagon-lit, a delay in Paris and finally another train that deposited the Staceys, and Peter, at Lausanne at nine o’clock.

There were about three inches of snow on the ground, but this seemed to be no impediment to traffic.

The Stacey party, complete with luggage, took their seats in a large automobile not unlike a shooting brake. In this they set off on the last stage of their outward journey to “Quatre Vents”.

“Quite decent looking” and “Not so dusty” were two vague descriptions of the pension.

Actually it was a long one-storeyed building, mostly of wood. The roof was low-pitched and on it were perched several large stones. Later in their holiday the chums asked why they had been placed there, to be told that they served as weights to prevent the building being unroofed by violent winds.

In front of the building was a wide veranda. During the summer months this could be a veritable sun-trap; but at the time of the Staceys’ visit the surrounding mountains, that seemed to close in the narrow valley, prevented any direct sunshine upon it.

Right behind the house a snow-covered mountain rose to a height of some five or six thousand feet. Several men roped together and looking about the size of field-mice were already making the climb to its summit.

Ascending the snow-covered slope between the “Quatre Vents” and the main road along the valley, the motor car conveying the new arrivals had to make three acute turns before it pulled up outside the pension.

Monsieur André Dubois came out to welcome his guests.

He was about fifty years of age, inclined to stoutness, although still very active. He might well have been taken for an English country inn-keeper. When he spoke there was hardly any foreign accent.

“Welcome to ‘Quatre Vents’, ladies and gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “Your luggage will be taken to your rooms. Leave all that to my staff. You need have no anxiety on that score. Meanwhile petit déjeuner is indicated.”

Soon the new arrivals were enjoying a light though generous meal. There were rolls of a lightness and freshness that the younger members of the party had never tasted at home, although Mr. and Mrs. Stacey remembered the time when bread in Britain was bread and not the stodgy substitute that came into being during the last war, and has remained ever since. There was fresh butter, too; unlimited quantities of it, with apparently no restrictions as to quantity. Neither Gerald nor Peter cared very much for coffee when they were at home, but here a first sip of the fragrant beverage made them change their opinion.

The meal over—a four-course lunch would be served in two hours’ time—Mr. and Mrs. Stacey went to their rooms, while Peter and Gerald with the latter’s two sisters were shown round the grounds by Monsieur Dubois.

They could still see the party roped together—mountaineers—apparently slowly making their way towards the summit.

Monsieur Dubois produced a pair of binoculars and invited his guests in turn to watch the climbers.

“Too jolly hard work!” declared Gerald.

“Excellent exercise!” exclaimed Dubois. “Perhaps during your visit you would like me to accompany you to the top of the Spitz.”

The chums exchanged glances. If this stout little man could scale the mountain, why shouldn’t they?

“And what happens when a fellow gets to the top, monsieur?” asked Peter.

The proprietor paused before replying. He hadn’t been asked that question previously.

“It is a feat of endurance,” he declared. “You ascend, you reach the summit, then you descend.”

“Do you have any avalanches, monsieur?” asked Gerald.

Dubois glanced sideways at him and then shrugged his shoulders.

“You see that wall?” he asked, indicating a massive stone structure, shaped in plan like a lance-corporal’s chevron. It was about fifty yards behind the house and was about ten feet in height and strengthened by several buttresses. “Occasionally we have small avalanches. The Spitz is good to us in that respect. The snow that glissades down the mountain is diverted by that wall. No, Monsieur Stacey, we have nothing to fear on that account. For thirty years I have been here, and never once has ‘les Quatre Vents’ been in danger from avalanches.”

What he omitted to mention was the fact that thirty-five years previously the then “Quatre Vents” had been overwhelmed and destroyed by enormous masses of snow sliding down the mountain-side. Perhaps it was just as well, from the viewpoint of his guests, that he hadn’t enlightened them on that point!