But for some reason or other the Chinaman did not seem anxious for the lads to do this. He shook his pig-tailed head.
“You waitee,” he advised. “By um bye find plentee welly nicee watel.”
“Well, this water right here is plentee nicee for me,” rejoined Jack. “So here goes.”
Followed by Tom, he plunged off the trail down the steep declivity, clinging to brush and small saplings as he went. Grumbling to himself in a low tone, the Chinaman followed. It was clear that he thought the proceedings foolish in the extreme.
The descent was longer as well as steeper than they had imagined it would be, but every minute the roaring voice of the concealed river or stream grew louder.
All at once, they emerged from a clump of brush, not unlike our eastern alders—almost upon the bank of a fine river. It was a lot bigger than they had expected, and was rushing along with the turbulent velocity characteristic of mountain water. Here and there were black, deep eddies dotted with circling flecks of white, yeasty foam. But the main stream dashed between its steep, rocky banks like a racehorse, flinging spray and spindrift high in the air when it encountered a check. The water was greenish—almost a glassy tint. The boys learned later that this was because it was snow water and came from the high Olympians.
Flinging themselves flat by the side of one of the eddies, they drank greedily.
“Reminds me of what that kid said when he showed his mother a fine spring he had discovered, and the good lady wished to know how to drink out of it,” chuckled Jack, as they paused for breath.
“What was that?” inquired Tom, wiping his wet mouth with the back of a sun-burned hand.
“‘Why, maw,’ said the kid, ‘you just lie on your tummy and drink uphill.’”