“Should think you did!” said Art. “You woke me up about forty-’leven times bumping your back into mine. I wasn’t very cold. Been warmer, though.”
“If it’s cold here,” put in Rob, “at four thousand feet, what’ll it be on Washington at six thousand?”
“I guess we’ll sleep inside on Washington,” said Mr. Rogers.
“Oh, no!” cried Art.
“Well, you can bunk outside, and the rest of us’ll go in,” laughed Frank. “Look, there’s the sun!”
Sure enough, in the east, across the white cloud which hung below them in the Notch, and beyond the wall of the Lafayette range, a great red ball was rising. It seemed to heave up above the mists as though somebody was pushing it from underneath, and as it got up and cast its rays across the Notch to their feet, Lafayette looked like a huge island of rock above a white sea of vapor. This vapor rolled up and blew away as they were eating breakfast. The morning was fine and clear. Mr. Rogers pointed toward Moosilauke. “That’s where we’ll be at night,” he said.
“It doesn’t look possible!” said Lou.
“It won’t be, if we don’t start,” said Art. “Got your flag, Peanut, or did you leave it on the south peak?”
“I got it, all right,” Peanut replied. “Are we ready? How far is it, Mr. Rogers?”
“Hm—four miles down this mountain,—ten to the base of Moosilauke—five miles up—nineteen miles.”