I don’t remember how it came about that I finally chose Freidegg among the multiplicity of winter-sport stations whose descriptions approximated to those of Heaven.  I expect Frederick forced the choice upon me; Frederick had been to Switzerland every winter from 1906 to 1913 and knew the ropes.  I somehow gathered that the ropes were of unusual complexity.

The entire journey was passed among winter-sporters of a certain type.  From their conversation I was able to learn that Badeloden was formerly overrun by Germans; that Franzheim was excellent if you stayed at the Grand, but at the Kurhaus the guests were unsociable, while at the Oberalp you were not done well and the central-heating was inefficient.

I ventured a few questions about the sport available, but was gently rebuked by the silence which followed before conversation was resumed in a further discussion of comforts and social amenities.

On arrival at the hotel I took out my skates, but, on Frederick’s advice, hid them again.  “Don’t let people see that you are a newcomer; there won’t be any skating for some weeks yet,” said he.

“But why not?” I objected.  “The ice must be at least six inches thick.”

“Well, it isn’t done,” he replied.  “One’s first week is spent in settling down; you can’t go straight on the ice without preparation.”

On the third day a Sports’ Meeting was held, as the result of which a programme of the season was published.  It was announced that there would be, weekly, three dances and one bridge tournament; a theatrical performance would be given once a fortnight, and the blank evenings filled with either a concert or an entertainment.  I began to wonder how I could squeeze in time for sleep.

In order that boredom might not overtake the guests before evening came, a magnificent tea was served from four to six.  During the afternoon one could visit the other hotels of the place and usually found some function in progress.  We were not expected to breakfast before ten, and the short time that remained before lunch was spent in a walk to the rink, where we would solemnly take a few steps on the ice, murmur, “Not in condition yet,” and return to the hotel.

After about a fortnight of this I announced to Frederick that I was going to skate, no matter how far from perfection the ice proved to be.

Frederick was indignant.

“You’ll make yourself both conspicuous and unpopular.  The two Marriotts are giving an exhibition to-morrow; if you spoil the ice for them their show will be ruined.”

“Very well, then,” said I, “I will borrow some ski and mess about on the snow.”

“You can’t do that,” he replied, horrified; “the professionals are coming next week for the open competition, and if they don’t find clean snow—­”

“All right; I’ll get one of those grid-irons and course down the ice-run.  I suppose that’s what the ice-run is for,” said I bitterly.