“Well, the fact is,” stammered the boy, “there was no jug or basin, and I—”
“Forgot it?” said Dale.
“Yes, I forgot it,” replied the boy, with an effort; and as he spoke he felt to himself that this was a touch of moral, though it was not physical, cowardice, for he ought to have spoken out frankly.
“Well, I’m going to have mine. How long will the coffee be, Melchior?”
“Not a quarter of an hour, herr.”
“Right. We’ll soon be back,” cried Dale; and a few minutes after he and Saxe were having a good scrub about the neck and shoulders, and glowing as if from an electric shock, so brisk and sharp was the water that came tumbling down over the rocks in the middle of one of the clumps of pines whose tops were freshened by the little cascade.
Back to the alfresco breakfast, which Dale ate with his back resting against a block of stone nestling in a mass of whortleberry, and gazing up at the mountain, while he and Melchior discussed the plan of their ascent.
“Yes,” said Dale, “you are right. We ought to take to the snow there, cross to that arête, and—”
“What’s an arête?” said Saxe, who was listening eagerly.
“That ridge along the summit of yonder spur or buttress,” said Dale. “That will bring us back to the main part of the mountain, and we ought to reach the shoulder from there.”