All held their breath, for the speed of the descending craft was absolutely terrifying. At the prow was a goggled figure in a white sweater, with a red dragon—the badge of his crew—worked on his chest. Behind him was a young girl, and behind her again four men, all similarly attired. With the exception of the steersman, who crouched forward,—a tense thing of staring eyes and straining muscles,—all were leaning back as far as possible to minimise wind pressure.
"Too fast!" was Saunders' comment.
Suddenly, in response to a hoarse cry from the steersman, the crew swung their bodies to the left and simultaneously flung out their arms in the same direction. The manœuvre was designed to bring the "bob" round the corner without checking the pace by applying the brake. The result was unsatisfactory. The prow of the "bob" struck the counter-bank violently, there was a gasp from a hundred throats, and a feathery cloud of snow rose, in which the limbs of half a dozen human beings were whirling in an intricate and inextricable confusion. No one, fortunately, was damaged, and in a few seconds the crew had sorted themselves and resumed their chequered career.
"Heroism and no brake!" muttered Karl. "How like our friend the American!"
"May his fall be as harmless!" said Saunders.
Frau Bilderbaum snorted.
"I should like to see him go over the precipice!" she exclaimed.
"You probably will—metaphorically speaking," said Meyer. "He is accompanying this expedition against us, and he has outwitted me twice."
A minute later another "bob" was making its nerve-shattering descent of the lightning run. This time its crew,—a well-drilled sextet in blue jerseys bearing the facetious badge of a tortoise,—swept round the dangerous bend without mishap.
"Well done, Miss Reeve-Thompson!" cried Mrs. Saunders, naming the lady who was steering the successful craft.