It was a gay company, in which the three invalids, the cousins and their protégée, sat and looked about them. There were white-teethed Englishmen in Scotch caps, talking in French to highly-scented ladies dressed from head to foot in bright-coloured woollens⁠—some of them even wore knickerbockers; Americans with small, neat heads, on which the hair was plastered down, pipe in mouth, and wearing shaggy furs the skin-side out; bearded, elegant Russians, looking barbarically rich, and Malayan Dutchmen, all these sitting among the German and Swiss population, as well as a sprinkling of indeterminate types⁠—all speaking French⁠—perhaps from the Balkans or the Levant. Hans Castorp showed certain weakness for this motley semi-barbarous world; but Joachim put it aside as mongrel and questionable. At intervals there were events for children, who staggered over the course with a snowshoe on one foot and a ski on the other. In one race each boy pushed a girl before him on a shovel; in another the winner carried a lighted taper, and must arrive at the goal with it still burning; or must climb over obstacles in his path, or pick up potatoes with a tin spoon and deposit them in watering-pots placed along the course. Everybody was in extravagant spirits.