“This is the trail,” Bob declared after they had gone about two miles from the village.
He had stopped at a point where a broad woods road joined the main highway.
“It’s about four miles right up the side of the mountain, and I imagine we’ll have to walk a good part of the way,” he said as he turned off.
The trail, however, was in better shape than he had dared hope and, although they were obliged to dismount and push the wheels every little while, they were able to ride the greater part of the way.
“We sure are getting up in the world,” Jack panted an hour later as he pushed his wheel over a particularly rough place.
“Never mind, son. We must be about there,” Bob laughed, wiping the perspiration from his face.
He was right, for another ten minutes brought them to the camp. It was a beautiful location, on the very summit of a lofty range of hills nearly two thousand feet above sea level. The grounds of the camp bordered on a pond nearly circular in shape and about two miles in diameter. The camp itself consisted of a large central dining house and a dozen small log cabins.
The host, a burly Irishman named Pat Hogan, met them as they rode up to the central building.
“Faith an’ ye don’t mane ter tell me thot ye rode up the mountain on them things,” and a broad grin spread over the landlord’s face.
“Well, I’ll have to own up that we had to push them part of the way,” Bob smiled. “But we got here, and now the question is can we stay.”