“Well, you could go after one in forestry. We’ll be seeing a lot of real forests. And there’s hiking, and camping. Oh, lots of ’em.”
“Got your manual with you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, let’s look ’em up later, and see what chance a dub like me has,” Bennie answered. “But this ain’t getting us much fire wood.”
They were so far from the camp ground now that dead wood was plentiful, and they returned to camp over the drifts and the bare clearings where the wild flowers were just sprouting—spring in July—dragging dead limbs enough to last two or three days. The smell of coffee and bacon greeted them as they came up the last slope to the camp.
“By the way,” Spider asked at breakfast, “what was the name of this mountain before it fell into itself?”
“Who was there to name it, you poor fish?” laughed Bennie.
“I never thought of that!”
“It has a posthumous name, though,” said Mr. Stone.
“Come again—come again!” Bennie said. “What kind of a name?”