"So I imagined. But, then, I fergive ye, fer I was young once meself, an' in love, too, so I know all the signs. I only wanted to know when ye expect to hit the trail on yer great adventure?"
"To-morrow," was the emphatic reply. "This place won't keep me an hour longer than I can help. I am sick of it."
"How d'ye expect to travel?"
"On foot, of course; straight over the mountains."
"D'ye realise the dangers?"
"Dangers are nothing to me; I am used to them."
"But s'pose I should tell ye it's impossible to git behind the Golden
Crest?"
"Then, I like to do the impossible. There are plenty to do the ordinary things. I want to do the extraordinary, the so-called impossible. Did you ever hear the song that the Panama Canal diggers used to sing to cheer them up?"
"No; what is it?"
"I only know four lines; they go this way: