“Oh, I say,” he cried. “Only look! Here yer are, then. Here’s yer hoky-poky. Here’s yer real ’apenny ices laid on free gratis for nothing. Here yer are, sir; which ’ll yer ’ave, strorbry or rarsbry? The real oridgenal ’stablishment, kep’ by Billi Sneakino Pianni Organni. Who says hoky-poky?”
“Why, ’tis real ice, Bill,” said one of the men.
“Snow,” said another.
“Gahn!” cried Private Gedge, scooping up a couple of handfuls. “It’s hailstones, that’s what it is. You on’y get snow atop o’ the high mountains.”
“But it is snow, my lad,” said a voice from behind, and the party started round, to see that a couple of their officers had followed to look at the glittering rift which ran right up hundreds of feet. “We’re pretty high now.”
“How high, sir?” said Gedge, saluting.
“We’re at the top of the pass now,” said the young officer who had spoken; “ten thousand feet above the sea.”
“Why, that’s higher than the top of Saint Paul’s, sir,” said one of the men.
“Top o’ Saint Paul’s,” cried Gedge scornfully. “Why, it’s higher than the Monniment atop o’ that. Higher than ’Amstead, ain’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” said the young officer, smiling.—“Don’t straggle away, my lads. Keep close in.”