Franz braced the sole of his shoe against the blade of his shovel, took
a big bite of snow and threw it high above his head. Even cows, Anton
Martek had told him--or especially cows--might lose their faith if they
could never see daylight.
How could they see daylight if the windows of their stable were darkened
by snow? And how could the snow be removed unless someone shoveled it
away? Franz thought grimly that, at last, he knew why the handles of the
shovels at St. Bernard Hospice were a full three feet longer than any in
Dornblatt.
Caesar, lying on the snow six feet above the boy's head, wagged an
amiable tail and grinned a canine grin. Franz glared at him.
"You might well smile!" he glowered. "You do no work at all! You refuse
even to turn the spit!"
Caesar's tail wagged harder and his jaws parted a bit more. A little
worm of worry gnawed at Franz's heart. Since the deep snows had started,
except to go down to the rest house with Father Benjamin whenever it was
the latter's turn to go, the mastiff had been idle.
Anton had worked patiently and endlessly to make him turn the spit--and
he was still working at it. But Caesar had discovered a simple ruse that
foiled the most cunning scheme Anton could devise; he merely lay down,
wagged his tail, beamed agreeably and refused to move at all. Not even
Anton cared to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog around and turn the
spit with him.
Franz looked beseechingly up at the big mastiff, who was still lying on
the snow and interestedly observing his master.
"You should learn to do it!" he begged. "Father Benjamin already knows
that you will not work! Soon Father Martin or Father Stephen will
discover that Anton and I have been taking turns revolving the spit for
you. They will inform one of the Canons, who is sure to tell the Prior.
Then you will be sent away from the Hospice, which is entirely right and
good and as it should be. The Fathers are not men of wealth, who can
afford to maintain such a big, lazy loafer as yourself in idleness!"
Caesar wagged his tail a little harder, as though he were being
complimented. Franz looked sternly at him, but could not find it in his
heart to scold any more.
"It will be very right and very just if you are sent away," he said
sadly, "but it will leave me so very lonesome. Caesar, you _must_ try!"
Franz turned back to his shoveling, fastening his heart and mind on the
one ray of hope that remained to him. Since the day of the blizzard,
when Caesar had brought them safely to the Hospice, Father Benjamin had
emphatically declared that any dog able to do such a thing was
priceless. But he was not going to be readily accepted.
There had been dogs at the Hospice since its founding; tradition said
that Bernard de Menthon himself had had one. But tradition said also
that it was the work of the priests and _maronniers_ at the Hospice to
succor travelers. That was why only men born to the mountains and
skilled in mountain arts could be accepted for service there.
It had been that way for seven hundred years, said Father Benjamin, and
anything that has existed for seven centuries is not lightly discarded.
Franz should be of good cheer, and while so being, though he needn't
dishonestly conceal the fact that Caesar was doing no work, he needn't
advertise it either. Gentle persuasion, according to Father Benjamin,
was far more effective than raging or bullying when it came to breaking
a wall of custom that was seven hundred years old.
Meanwhile, whenever it was Father Benjamin's turn to go down to either
rest house, he would take Caesar with him. Sooner or later, he would
prove the dog's value.
Franz sighed and dug his shovel blade into the last of the snow. Caesar
had accompanied Father Benjamin on every trip. But on every trip Father
Benjamin made, the weather had been so fine that there had been no need
for a rescue or any other kind of work. Franz threw the last of the snow
out of the hole, climbed out himself and at once slipped his feet into
the skis that awaited him.
The snow at this altitude was hard and granular and not at all similar
to the soft stuff that often covered the lower reaches. The hard snow,
plus Caesar's huge paws, kept him from sinking more than a few inches,
and he rose to greet his master with furiously-wagging tail. Franz
caught up his shovel, smoothed the snow he had thrown out and turned to
look about him.
The Grand St. Bernard Pass was indeed locked in the grip of winter, with
snow piled high about the Hospice and drifts lying at intervals. But the
day had started out very well, and Fathers Stephen and Martin had gone
down to the rest houses on the north and south slopes, in order to bring
up any travelers waiting there.
Franz turned uneasily on his skis. The day was still fine, but there
were a few clouds where none had been earlier and an undercurrent that
spoke of fury to be. It was a hint that only a born mountaineer could
feel at all--but Franz resolutely banished his fears. Father Stephen had
had three years of experience at the Hospice and Father Martin seven.
They were well able to take care of themselves.
Franz moved to the stable door, slipped out of his skis and entered.
Anton Martek, sitting on a pile of hay and honing an ax, looked up and
grinned.
"Tomorrow," he prophesied, "you shall have all of it to do over again."
"So you sense the storm coming, too?" Franz asked.
"I sense nothing," Anton said serenely, "for to do so is very silly. I
live for the moment that is, not the one that will be, and that proves
me either a great fool or a very wise man. I do not know which and do
not care, but anyone knows that snow may fall at any time now in Grand
St. Bernard Pass. Therefore, it is evident that you will do your
shoveling all over again tomorrow."