He made a mad dive with his hat, put it quickly over a low plant, and drew from under a beautiful butterfly, all gold and silver, with a black border around the wings.
“The small mountain fritillary,” he said. “Often comes up here, but shouldn’t be here with the wind so strong. What I’m looking for really is an Oeneis semidea, an arctic butterfly which they say is found only on Mount Washington. He’s gray, like the rocks. Looks like a two inch piece of lichen. Haven’t found one yet, though. You watch this fritillary follow the road down the mountain, now.”
He let the butterfly go, and sure enough, it started down the road, flying not more than three feet above the ground, and as long as the boys could watch it, it was keeping to every turn and twist.
“He knows the way down!” laughed the man. “And he knows he has no business up here when it’s so cold, with night coming on. He’ll get down, though, at that rate.
“And now, boys,” continued this odd man, “you be as wise as the butterfly! Back to the hotel, shoulder packs, and to your camp!”
He led the way again up the road. He walked so fast that the five boys and Mr. Rogers were all panting. But he himself was not out of breath in the least. He laughed at Peanut.
“Anyhow, I get my wind good in a month up here,” he said, “even if it is ‘slow’ and I’m old enough to be your grandfather!”
“You’ve not walked nineteen miles to-day,” said Peanut.
“No, but I’ve walked sixteen,” the man replied. “I’ve been down nearly to North Woodstock and back, by the Beaver Brook Trail. You’ll know what I mean when you see that trail.”
Peanut was silent.