"We are getting there, Bill; we're getting there—near the scene of the tragedies at any rate."
Ere long we reached the top. Here we passed the last shrub and in a little space came to a small glacier. The tracks of the horses led straight across it. But our route did not go thither; it led up over the rocks.
Suddenly, as we toiled our way upward, Rhodes, with the remark that Science had some strange stories to tell, asked me if I had ever heard of Tartaglia's slates. I never had, though I had heard of Tartaglia, and I wanted to know about those slates.
"Tombstones," said Milton.
"Tombstones?"
"Tombstones, Bill. What with the terrible poverty, Tartaglia, when educating himself, could not get even a slate, and so he went out and wrote his exercises on tombstones."
"Gosh!"
"And did you ever hear of Demoivre's death? There is a problem for your psychological sharks."
"I never heard of him. And how did the gentleman die?"
"He told them that he had to sleep so many minutes longer each day."