“I want you to clear off,” he said to the man, offering him five francs, and pointing in the direction of St. Moritz. The peasant shook his head, retaining the five francs, and opening the palm of his other hand. Winn placed a further contribution in it and said firmly:
“Now if you don’t go I shall knock you down.” He shook his fist to reinforce the feebleness of his alien speech. The Swiss peasant stepped off the path hurriedly into a snow-drift. He was a reasonable man, and he did not grasp why one mad Englishman should wish to be killed, nor, for the matter of that, why others equally mad, should wish to prevent it. So he walked off in the direction of St. Moritz and hid behind a tree, reposing upon the deeply rooted instinct of not being responsible for what he did not see.
Winn regarded the run methodically, placed his toboggan on the summit of the leap, and looked down at the thin, blue streak stretching into the distance. The valley appeared to be entirely empty; there was nothing visibly moving in it except a little distant smoke on the way to Samaden. The run looked very cold and very narrow; the nearest banks stood up like cliffs.
Winn strapped a rake to his left foot, and calculated that the instant he felt the ice under him he must dig into it, otherwise he would go straight over the first bank. Then he crouched over his toboggan, threw himself face downward, and felt it spring into the air.
He kept no very definite recollection of the sixty-odd seconds that followed. The ice rose up at him like a wall; the wind – he had not previously been aware of the faintest draught of air – cut into his eyes and forehead like fire. His lips blistered under it.
He felt death at every dizzy, dwindling second – death knotted up and racketing, so imminent that he wouldn’t have time to straighten himself out or let go of his toboggan before he would be tossed out into the empty air.
He remembered hearing a man say that if you fell on the Cresta and didn’t let go of your toboggan, it knocked you to pieces. His hands were fastened on the runners as if they were clamped down with iron. The scratching of the rake behind him sounded appalling in the surrounding silence.
He shot up the first bank, shaving the top by the thinness of a hair, wobbled sickeningly back on to the straight, regained his grip, shot the next bank more easily, and whirled madly down between the iron walls. He felt as if he were crawling slowly as a fly crawls up a pane of glass, in a buzzing eternity.
Then he was bumped across the road and shot under the bridge. There was a hill at the end of the run. As he flew up it he became for the first time aware of pace. The toboggan took it like a racing-cutter, and at the top rose six feet into the air, and plunged into the nearest snow-drift.
Winn crawled out, feeling very sick and shaken, and as if every bone in his body was misplaced.
“Oh, you idiot! You idiot! you unbounded, God-forsaken idiot!” a voice exclaimed in his ears. “You’ve given me the worst two minutes of my life!”
Winn looked around him more annoyed than startled. He felt a great disinclination for speech and an increasing desire to sit down and keep still; and he did not care to conduct a quarrel sitting down.
However, a growing inability to stand up decided him; he dragged out his toboggan and sat on it.
The speaker appeared round a bend of the run. She had apparently been standing in the path that overlooked a considerable portion of it.
She was not a young woman, and from her complexion and the hardness of her thickly built figure she might have been made of wood.
She wore a short, strapped-in skirt, leather leggings, and a fawn-colored sweater. Her eyes were a sharp, decided blue, and the rest of her appearance matched the sweater.
Winn pulled himself together.
“I don’t see, Madam,” he remarked slowly, but with extreme aggressiveness, “what the devil my actions have to do with you!”
“No,” said the lady, grimly, “I don’t suppose from the exhibition I’ve just been watching, that you’re in the habit of seeing farther than to the end of your own nose. However, I may as well point out to you that if you had killed yourself, as you richly deserved, and as you came within an ace of doing, the run would have been stopped for the season. We should all have been deprived of the Grand National, and I, who come up here solely to ride the Cresta, which I have done regularly every winter for twenty years, would have had my favorite occupation snatched from me at an age when I could least afford to miss it.”
“I haven’t been killed, and I had not the slightest intention of being so,” Winn informed her with dangerous calm. “I merely wished to ride the Cresta for the first time unobserved. Apparently I have failed in my intention. If so, it is my misfortune and not my fault.” He took out a cigarette, and lit it with a steady hand, and turned his eyes away from her. He expected her to go away, but, to his surprise, she spoke again.
“My name,” she said, “is Marley. What is yours?”
“Staines,” Winn replied with even greater brevity. He had to give her his name, but he meant it to be his last concession.
“Ah,” she said thoughtfully, “that accounts for it. You’re the image of Sir Peter, and you seem to have inherited not only his features, but his manners. I needn’t, perhaps, inform you that the latter were uniformly bad. I knew your father when I was a girl. He was stationed in Hong-Kong at the time and he was good enough to call me the little Chinese, no doubt in reference to my complexion. Plain as I am now, I was a great deal plainer as a girl, though I dare say you wouldn’t think it.”
Winn made no comment upon this doubtful statement; he merely grunted. His private opinion was that ladies of any age should not ride the Cresta, and that ladies old enough to have known his father at Hong-Kong should not toboggan at all.
It was unsuitable, and she might have hurt herself; into these two pitfalls women should never fall.
Miss Marley had a singularly beautiful speaking voice; it was as soft as velvet. She dropped it half a tone, and said suddenly:
“Look here, don’t do that kind of thing again. It’s foolish. People don’t always get killed, you know; sometimes they get maimed. Forgive me, but I thought I would just like to point it out to you. I could not bear to see a strong man maimed.”
Winn knew that it was silly and weak to like her just because of the tone of her voice, but he found himself liking her. He had a vague desire to tell her that he wouldn’t do it again and that he had been rather a fool; but the snow was behaving in a queer way all around him; it appeared to be heaving itself up. He said instead:
“Excuse me for sitting down like this. I’ve had a bit of a shake. I’ll be all right in a moment or two.” Then he fainted.
Miss Marley stooped over him, opened his collar, laid him flat on the ground – he had fallen in a heap on his toboggan – and chafed his wrists and forehead with snow. When she saw that he was coming round, she moved a little away from him and studied his toboggan.
“If I were you,” she observed, “I should have these runners cut a little finer; they are just a shade too thick.”
Winn dragged himself on to the toboggan and wondered how his collar came to be undone. When he did it up, he found his hands were shaking, which amazed him very much. He looked a little suspiciously at his companion.
“Of course,” Miss Marley continued pleasantly, “I ought to have that watchman discharged. I am a member of the Cresta committee, and he behaved scandalously; but I dare say you forced him into it, so I shall just walk up the hill and give him a few straight words. Probably you don’t know the dialect. I’ve made a point of studying it. If I were you, I should stay where you are until I come back. I want you to come to tea with me at Cresta. There’s a particularly good kind of bun in the village, and I think I can give you some rather useful tobogganing tips. It isn’t worth while your climbing up the hill just to climb down again, is it? Besides, you’d probably frighten the man.”