But, as the tide of cheap immigration brought strange faces to the Adlerhof in ever-increasing numbers, the old patriarchal life was bound to come to an end in favour of some system more congenial to the British temperament—one, that is to say, which would classify the guests and admit of a distinction between governors and governed. Accordingly, Mr. Chowdler and the original families took up the white man’s burden, formed themselves into a permanent committee, and set themselves to organise life on the principles which have made sport the thing it is. They created a skating club, a tobogganing club, a ski-ing club, and a curling club, each with rules and tests and an etiquette of its own; they appointed competitions, and decided in what particular form of dissipation the guests were to indulge of an evening. In a word, they gave the Adlerhof the blessings of a firm and orderly government. With a prescriptive right to the best rooms and the chief place at feasts, they were the aristocracy of the hotel, governing, as befits an aristocracy, in the interests of the many, but holding discreetly aloof.
Unfortunately, amongst Britons, one of the first results of a firm government is a factious and discontented Opposition; and the Adlerhof was no exception to the rule. No sooner had Mr. Chowdler and his friends assumed the cares of office than murmurs of complaint began to be heard, feeble at first but gathering strength with each successive season. Wild young men and women, athirst for bandy and bunny-hugs, for impossible ski-jumps and noisy races along the corridors, protested that they had not come out to be drilled like schoolboys but to enjoy themselves; and they began to question the authority of the self-appointed committee. Profoundly ignorant of the past history of the place and of all that it owed to its aristocracy, they felt no reverence for Mr. Chowdler and the Hon. Fitzroy Plashy circling sedately round an orange, and only wondered why the best part of the rink was reserved for these old fogeys and their friends. At last a moment came when, conscious of their strength, they passed from murmurs to action. When the committee arranged a toboggan race, the opposition organised a ski-ing competition; when the committee decreed a gymkhana, the opposition engineered a dance; and the hotel was divided into hostile camps.
Things were in this critical state when, on December 28, Mr. Chowdler arrived in Sauersprudel to lend his powerful support to the cause of law and order. His annual appearance had always been treated as an event of importance in the life of the hotel—obsequious smiles from mine host and a flutter among the servants. You would have thought him a governor returning to his colony, or a chieftain to his clan. But, on this occasion, Mr. Chowdler, who had left his wife at home, was met in the hall by the landlord with a face of woe. The room on the first floor with the south aspect, the room that he had selected as his own in 1896 and which had been specially reserved for him ever since, had been forcibly annexed and occupied, a fortnight previously, by a young English Herr who refused to turn out for all the Chowdlers in creation. Would Mr. Chowdler mind going into a room on the other side of the passage for a few days—a larger and a better room, though facing north? The young Herr talked of leaving very shortly.
“His name?” asked Mr. Chowdler curtly.
“Mr. Maurice Veal of London.”
“Bring him to me,” said Mr. Chowdler.
Impossible; the young man had gone out ski-ing for the day, taking his lunch with him.
“Then send my boxes up to my room,” said Mr. Chowdler. “My own room mind. I will arrange matters.”
The landlord hesitated between fear of Mr. Chowdler and the danger of losing a wealthy customer who drank champagne every night and paid exactly twice as much for the room as Mr. Chowdler did. But fear of Mr. Chowdler prevailed; and, when young Mr. Veal returned from his day’s sport at five in the afternoon, he found his own effects in the passage and Mr. Chowdler, in shirt sleeves, busily engaged in installing himself in the disputed apartment.
Mr. Veal, though not deficient in bounce, was not remarkable for his physical proportions. Perhaps a long and fatiguing day in the snow, in the course of which he had taken many severe falls, had damped his spirits; or, perhaps the sight of Mr. Chowdler in shirt sleeves, with his broad shoulders, bullet head, red face, and determined jaw, was more formidable than anything he had anticipated. At all events he lost his nerve, and, after a little bluster and some futile threats, he withdrew to abuse the landlord, leaving Mr. Chowdler in possession.