Whichever way they tried to walk they found themselves going uphill.
“Rum start,” said Magnus minor, after ramping round in a semicircle and finding no trace of their homeward path. “It strikes me we shall have to hang out here till the clouds roll by, Joey.”
“All very well. How about grub?” said the poet. “We shall be just about what-do-you-call-it by then.”
“Hullo,” said Magnus, looking at his watch, “do you know it’s 11 p.m. and broad daylight.”
Joe consulted his watch, and wound it up as he did so.
“So it is—must be a thingamybob—a roaring boreali, or whatever you call it, going on. Wouldn’t be so bad if it was good to eat.”
Magnus assented, and the two outcasts stood and watched with somewhat mingled feelings the battalion of clouds as they swirled past and soared up at the heights above.
“May as well go upstairs too,” said the poet, dismally. So they began the ascent. This time Magnus showed no inclination to forge ahead, and Joe took every precaution not to lag behind. In fact, they proceeded arm in arm, trying to enjoy it, but inwardly wondering who would have the benefit of their supper at Llandudno.
It was easy enough going; the turf was crisp and soft, and as they got up a little, flowers began to peep out. Though they could not see through the mists, they fancied they could catch the sound of birds and the splash of water. The clouds, sweeping up on every side, seemed to help them along, so that sometimes they could hardly be quite sure whether they were walking on earth or air. Altogether, had they but dined, they would have voted the walk one of the jolliest they ever had in their lives.
Presently a strange sound above brought them suddenly to a halt. It was music of some sort, but mingling with it the even sweeter music of plates and knives and forks; and when for a moment the music ceased, they seemed to detect voices and laughter.