"'Course not," declared Desmond.
"Right-o!" rejoined Sinclair, then, as if he had put the matter out of his mind, he drew himself up, stretched his arms, and sniffed appreciatively at the keen, bracing mountain air.
"My word," he exclaimed, "isn't it tophole? I'll race you to the crest of Shutter Pike."
It was a distance of about four hundred yards to the summit of the hill known as Shutter Pike—a gentle gradient for two-thirds of the way, ending up with a fairly stiff ascent.
For the first fifty yards Tiny led, but gradually Colin recovered the initial advantage his companion had gained, and before the last fifty yards he had drawn up level. Then, putting his whole energy into the race, Sinclair dashed ahead and flung himself upon the grassy knoll at the summit. To his surprise, Tiny had stopped and was holding his hands against his ribs and coughing violently.
"Buck up, man!" Sinclair shouted. "I'm a bit out of training .... Why, what's the matter? Anything wrong?"
Desmond shook his head, but made no attempt to move. His companion jumped to his feet and ran down the slope.
"Did you fall?" he asked anxiously, for the bluish-grey pallor on his chum's face rather took him aback.
"No," spluttered Tiny. "Stitch, or something ... nothing much."
He sat down abruptly, endeavouring to stifle the fit of coughing. At length he succeeded.