“And yet,” said Uncle Billy, “if we’d really got to the top, we’d be so set up now that we wouldn’t mind the weariness. It’s like a crew race. You’ll notice it’s always the losing crew which collapses at the finish line.”
“I’d like to try it again, from a base camp at timber line,” Norman said. “That would give us two hours more of daylight at each end. We could do it easily with that.”
“If anybody talks about climbing Jefferson again, he’s in danger of his life,” Bennie retorted.
“Well, well, Bennie has had enough exercise for once!” Mr. Stone smiled. “He must have had—he hasn’t even spoken to poor Jeff.”
“Oh, gee, I was so tired I forgot him!” Bennie cried, jumping up with sudden energy. “Where is he, cook? What you done with him?”
“Whined so I tied him up down the creek a bit,” the cook answered. He, too, was cross, because he had to get supper so late.
Bennie grabbed a lantern, and went off into the woods, calling, “Jeff, Jeff!” Those in camp heard a far-off yelp of greeting, and a few minutes later Bennie returned, with Jeff at his heels, and lay down by the fire again with the dog’s head snuggled up to him.
It was after ten o’clock when supper was finished. The six climbers took enough water from the stove to wash the worst of the grease paint from their faces, and without any further preparation for bed pulled off their clothes, got into their pyjamas, crawled, stiff and lame and aching in every joint, with cracked and bleeding lips, and red, smarting eyes, into their sleeping bags, and almost before their heads touched the little air pillows were fast asleep.
Bennie had started to remark to Spider, as he got into bed, that real mountain climbing was the hardest work there was, but he forgot what he was going to say before he could open his mouth. And, if he had said it, nobody would have been awake enough to listen.