At the fringe of the forest four figures were stamping about to warm themselves in the gray dawn of a frosty morning.
“It has struck seven; why don’t they come? I’m freezing!” cried Patrick, tumbling down from the fir tree on which he had perched to scan the horizon.
“We’d be better off in bed,” sighed lazy Bob. Andrew’s teeth chattered.
The sound of an approaching minivan made them prick up their ears. “There they are!” cried Simon, “I recognize Cyril.”
The four boys advanced cautiously to the road. The car stopped. Quickly the doors opened and then the six were all inside, together with three pairs of skis and two sleds.
“Br-r-r! How cold it is! Glad you’ve got here, Cyril; we couldn’t have held out much longer,” cried the boys, rubbing their hands and clapping them together.
“We had to push the car,” replied Cyril; “it made such a noise starting - enough to wake the whole neighborhood. It was too risky. And then it took minutes to warm up the engine after such a cold night.”
“You feel safe as to driving?”
“Nothing is easier than to drive this machine. The only snag is the frozen road; I’ll have to go very slowly.”
“Hadn’t we better wait half an hour in the forest before facing the pass? Then the sun will have melted the ice,” proposed Bob.
“No, it’s better to get away as quickly as possible, in case we are chased,” retorted Cyril, brusquely. His eyes were glued to the road, his brows knitted, and Patrick kept rubbing the glass with his handkerchief to get rid of the half-frozen vapor.
“The snow will be just right for skiing,” Simon declared. “We’ll have a smashing time! A whole day on skis, in perfect weather; how super!”
The villages through which Cyril drove them, as quickly as the slippery road permitted, were just awaking from sleep. A door opened; a shutter creaked. Cows began to moo and dogs to bark. An old woman, all muffled up, came out on her doorstep and stared at the car, shaking her head as if to say, “These young folk, they think of nothing but dashing about.”
Soon the car turned onto a narrower road bordered with a huge plantation of black firs, growing so closely that the light could scarcely filter through their somber foliage.
“There’s a hide-out to keep in mind for the day we’re hunted,” said Bob. “That is, if your great body could manage to squeeze between the trunks! It’s absolutely necessary you should slim, Bob,” said Cyril. “Fatness doesn’t become a member of our club - you’re scarcely able to run. You remember how you were nearly caught when we painted Father Michou’s car red!”
“How mad he was!” cried Simon. “Happily he never guessed who the culprits were!”
“I know I’m a glutton,” agreed Bob; “but I’ve never known you to refuse when I offer to share with you! Besides, I can do other things than eating. Recollect that it was I who made the bomb jump in the school corridor, and who sprinkled the sneezing powder on the professor’s desk.”
“All right, Bob, don’t take offense! We know your virtues,” said Cyril. “No one is sharper than you at sneaking the rolls from the baker’s, and what’s more, we all enjoy your spoils.”
“We must tell you about our special gifts, Patrick,” declared Simon, “now you are enrolled as one of our band. Bob, then, is the specialist in pilfering; his large good-tempered face disarms everyone; no one distrusts him. Charlie has the gift of forging - no matter whose signature, which is a great asset when I don’t want to show my school report at home. Andrew is the practical one who can do anything with his hands. Everything he undertakes is a sure success. He’s almost too good to be one of us! As for myself, you know me; no need to describe myself.”
“Simon is our secret agent,” Cyril put in. “He hears everything, sees and understands everything. We’ve christened him ‘The Intelligence Service.’”
“As for Cyril, he stirs us all up and shoots us into adventures! He is our head, we are only the working body.”
“And I?” thought Patrick; “what role shall I play in this club?”
As if guessing his thoughts, Cyril went on: “You, Patrick, haven’t yet made proof of your abilities. The next dangerous mission shall be your job, to bring you up to scratch.”
“What mission?” said Simon, eagerly. “You look as if something is in your mind.”
“You told me once of a boy in your class who seems to spy on you and aggravates you with his pious airs?”
“John Garnier!” interrupted Simon; “and what can we do to him? Play a good trick on him? Confess, Patrick - how many times have you punctured his bicycle tires?”
“Uncountable,” said Patrick, laughing.
“What has he done to make you detest him so much?” asked Andrew.
“Many things,” responded Patrick, sourly; “And he gets on my nerves. He actually preaches to us. I should like just once to give him a bad quarter of an hour, and see if he would keep up his saintly behavior. “
“Let’s put him in a pit,” proposed Cyril, “and leave him there to simmer a few hours. It’s up to you to fix the day and arrange the ambush, Patrick.”
“We must disguise ourselves and put on masks for sure,” said Bob.
“I propose the first day of term,” said Simon; “we come out at 5 p.m. - nearly dark. That will be perfect.”
Patrick said nothing. A vague uneasiness took hold of him. Surely this was too cruel a vengeance on John for simply living up to what he believed right. But how could he get out of it now? Wouldn’t they accuse him of cowardice?
The zig-zag road became steeper, and the driver had to maneuver very carefully, grazing the rocky hillside for fear of the precipice. Suddenly, in the middle of a hairpin bend, the vehicle stopped and began to slide back!
“Brake!” cried Patrick, pulling the handbrake with all his might. The car turned round and stopped dead.
“Can’t you make it start again? Perhaps you have stalled the engine.” This from Simon.
Other cars, held up behind them, sounded their horns impatiently; the unfortunate minivan right across the road, completely barred their progress. What an incredibly awkward position! Furious at attracting so much attention, Cyril did everything he could, but with no result. The driver of the next car got out and spoke indignantly.
“Couldn’t you choose some other spot to stop in? Do you know how to drive, or don’t you?”
“I don’t know what happened,” retorted Cyril. “The car stopped all at once, and I can’t find out how to start it again.”
The dismayed air of the young driver disarmed the motorist, who came to look, saying, “Let me try.”
Cyril gave up his place to him. “What a simpleton!” cried the stranger, with a burst of laughter; “don’t you see that you’re out of gas? You are a fine driver! I doubt if you’ve passed your test, for no one would take you for eighteen. You hardly deserve it, but all the same, I’m willing to help you out.”
The stranger ran to his car, took out a tin of gas and poured the contents into the tank. “There,” he said, “that’s one dollar. Try to get to the pass on that, for I’ve no more to spare.”
The boys overwhelmed him with thanks, paid for the gas, and soon the line of cars moved on. They were still some little distance from the pass.
“We’ll stop only a minute to get gas,” said Cyril, still rather crestfallen. “We must avoid all crowds, in case the police have been alerted. Better to park in some side road and go on foot to the restaurant.”
This is what they did. Going back downhill slowly, the boys inspected the roadsides looking for a place to hide the van. Impossible to put it in the forest where it would sink in the snow.
“I see a farm down there on the left,” cried Charlie; “the road to it should be open.”
With great care Cyril steered them along an uneven track, with so much jolting that they were thrown one against another amid hilarious laughter.
“There, between those two firs,” suggested Simon. One last effort and the vehicle was parked. Nothing more was needed than to pile up some snow about the car, and to cover it with fir branches.
“It’s perfect,” approved Patrick; “from a few yards, no one can spot it.”
“Now let’s make the most of our time,” cried Simon. “I know a good smooth ski-track, and I’ve a pocket full of money for the ski-lift. Forward, Jolly Outlaws! Pat, take these skis. I greased them for you last night.” Simon was already gliding on his well-varnished skis, followed by Cyril and Patrick. Bob, Andrew and Charlie pulled their sleds onto the slope. They were soon lost in the crowd of amateur sportsmen who brightened the glistening snow with many and various colors.
“Meet in the restaurant at midday,” called Cyril, before disappearing behind a hill. Charlie and Andrew streaked past on their sled, guided by Bob, lying flat on his own. As for Patrick, he recollected the last excursion on skis that he had taken with his father, an expert in all sports; he was still in good form, and tried to follow out his father’s counsels. The pleasure of flying over the snow, powdery to perfection, succeeded in dispelling his lingering scruples.
“After all,” thought he, “it’s only my right to amuse myself like other people.”
At noon, driven by hunger, the six comrades met in the crowded restaurant, where popular music drowned the rattling of dishes and the babel of voices.
“Let’s sit there,” proposed Patrick; “we will be in the best place to enjoy the radio and hear the weather forecast.”
Around the bowls of steaming savory soup the boys unpacked their lunches.
“I’ve brought a sausage,” cried Simon, showing a huge one.
“Mine is chocolate roll,” said Bob, the sweet-tooth.
“We have lemonade and cheese,” added Charlie and Andrew.
“There’s plenty of bread; we won’t die of hunger.”
Enjoyment was at its height when suddenly the dance music stopped to give place to a voice which made our merry diners tremble. “A blue minivan, No. 47649, belonging to Mr. I. Mollett, of 7, Three Mirrors Street, Montval, has disappeared this morning,” said the radio announcer. “Please telephone any useful information to Montval police station. I repeat the number - 47649.”
The voice ceased; music recommenced, brighter than before; but the boys had quite lost their appetites. Patrick, paler than the rest, questioned Bob.
“Why didn’t you tell me the owner’s name? I know that florist; I shouldn’t have come with you.”
“Shut up, Patrick! Pick up your rations, I’m going to pay for the soup. Out we go!” Cyril beckoned the waiter and settled his bill. Once outside, they breathed more freely.
“What shall we do, Cyril? Go home at once, or go on skiing?”
“Go home now? That would be the stupidest blunder we could make. The car is well hidden. We need only wait till dark. Have a good time and don’t be afraid. We’ll find a way out of this scrape!”
“I have an idea,” volunteered Simon. “Leave the car in a wood near the town. We’ll put the skis and sleds in the hut and go home on foot; so no one will see or know anything. The police will find the car next day.”
Cheered by this plan, the band took heart again, and set off with renewed vigor on the shining slopes. Patrick rushed at breakneck speed down the stiffest tracks, trying to stifle his remorse.
Presently clouds covered the sky which became dark and threatening. Fine flakes of snow appeared and whirled around overhead. One by one the skiers, disheartened by the piercing cold, took off their skis and went to their cars. A blinding squall of snow caused the six boys to get together.
“It’s useless to go on,” declared Bob; “it’s no more fun; we can hardly see.”
“Let’s go to the car; there’s not much risk now. Everyone is too anxious to get home to inspect our number.”
It was no easy task to get the van out of the ruts where she was embedded. By tremendous efforts in pushing behind, with much creaking, they finally reached the road. Numb and wet, the boys huddled together to try to get some warmth.
“I’m so hungry!” cried Charlie; “is there anything left to eat?”
“There’s still some bread and cheese in the box,” replied Simon.
“That must wait till later on,” said Cyril, quickly. “Don’t stop to eat now; we must get on.”
The snow fell more and more heavily and blocked their vision in spite of the windshield wiper. Soon fog enveloped them, and Cyril became really frightened in his position as driver.
Not only was the car out of his control, but the danger of swerving in that darkness which even the headlights could not pierce, filled him with uncontrollable dread.
“We must stop,” he said suddenly, “I can’t see anything.”
Patrick jumped out and began to clean off the windshield, now thick with snow.
“Shut the door,” cried Bob, “we’re freezing, and snow is coming in. If only we were a little nearer home!”
“Shut up, coward!” retorted Simon; “it’s no help to be a wet blanket. Cyril has enough trouble without hearing our lamentations.”
Just then a lifting of the fog restored the driver’s courage, and the car started on again. All the boys, with eyes straining on the wooded roadsides, helped him with advice.
“There’s a car behind us, Cyril! Don’t slow down!”
“Put on the big headlights.” Patrick did not cease rubbing the windshield with his handkerchief, and the boys endured without complaint a current of cold air so that no steam should detract from the precarious visibility.
A fresh wave of fog submerged them at the moment of reaching the hairpin bends which, even that morning, had needed all the skill of the amateur chauffeur. Suddenly Cyril felt the car skid on the frozen road. At once he tried to straighten it out by turning the steering-wheel first left, then right. Terrified, Patrick cried: “Put her in low gear!” But Cyril could no longer manage to maneuver. The gear grated; he pushed in the clutch, which only increased their speed. The van began to twist like a drunken man. Losing his head, Cyril frantically pressed the brake. With one bound, the vehicle turned round and went over the edge - into space - just as Simon opened the door and jumped out!