“Nearly half-way there,” said Fisher minor, hoping some one would corroborate the statement.
“Oh, we don’t count that bit we’ve come anything,” said Wally. “We’re just starting up now.”
“Oh,” said Fisher, again hoping to be confirmed. “Then it’s only two hours’ climb?”
“That’s all you know about it. Wisdom used to say he could do it in three hours from the lake-side. But he was a wonner to go. Come along; wire in, you chaps.”
“Where did Wisdom get killed?” asked Percy, by way of a little genial conversation.
“I heard over the other side, down the cliffs above the lake. He got caught in a mist and lost his way.”
“How do you know this is the right way up?” asked Cottle.
“Because it’s as plain as the nose on your face,” retorted the guide.
It was a long dreary pull up the lower slope, over the wet grass and through the bracken, and Fisher minor before he accomplished the first stage was heartily sick of Hawk’s Pike. One or two of his companions, to tell the truth, were not quite as enamoured of the expedition as they tried to appear, but they kept their emotions to themselves. Wally was the only member of the party who was uniformly cheerful, and no one, not even Percy, exactly liked to incur his contempt by appearing to enjoy the clamber less than he.
“Come on, you chaps,” cried the leader as he staggered to the top of the slope. “Keep it up. What a crow it will be for us, when we get to the top!”