Bertram Mitford
"Fordham's Feud"
Chapter One.
At First Sight.
The steamer Mont Blanc was sweeping round the rather dangerous promontory just beyond La Tour de Peilz.
The fine vessel was a brave sight as she sped arrowlike over the turquoise breast of Lake Léman, her straight stem shearing up a great scintillating blade of water on either side, her powerful paddles lashing up a long line of creaming rollers, hissing and curving away in her wake. From stem to stern she was gay with bunting, for this was but her second trip after being laid up through the winter season, and there was a spick-and-span newness about everything, from the whiteness of her commodious hurricane deck to the dazzling glass and luxurious lounges of her airy and spacious saloon.
The day was perfect. Not a cloud was in the arching heavens, not a ripple on the blue surface of the lake, which mirrored forth the hoary crowns of the Savoy Alps as though they were cut in steel. The great forest-clad slopes were rich in their velvety verdure, rising from the water’s edge on the Savoy side; and a dazzling snow shroud still covered the Dent du Midi half-way down to its base. On the Swiss shore the straggling towns and multitudinous villas lying among the fresh greenery of vineyards looked mere pigmy toys beneath the slopes of the great mountains. And from the same bosky slopes came ever and anon the glad, joyous shout of the cuckoo. It was June—but only just June—and the air, balmy and life-giving, knew no suspicion of sultriness.
“I say, Phil, my boy, it’s about time to collect our traps. We go off at the next stage but one—Hallo! What has become of the fellow?” broke off the speaker, turning to discover that his friend had left his side. “Ah! there he is. At it again too. By George, the dog’s irreclaimable!”