“You bet,” the other answered. “They are about the biggest and solidest things we have, and the only folks who get to the top of ’em are folks with good legs, like you boys. I like people with good legs, but I don’t like lazy people. So on the mountains I’m sure of good company. It’s the only place I am sure of it—except, of course, in my own room, with the door locked!”
Peanut led the laugh at this.
Before their new friend rose to go, he told them something of the trail down the mountain. “It’s an Appalachian Club trail,” he said, “but it’s not so well kept up as those on the Presidentials, and it’s almighty steep in places. You’ll find it good fun. When you get to the bottom, turn to the left and have a look at Beaver Meadow. It’s an acre or more across, and was really cleared by beavers. You can still see the ruins of their old dam. Then go through Lost River, and you’ve seen the best of that region. Good-night, boys, and good hiking!”
“Will you be all right in the dark, around the head of the ravine?” asked Mr. Rogers.
“The soles of my feet are as good a guide as my eyes on this path,” the man laughed.
But Peanut jumped up, took the lantern, and insisted on escorting him along the path till it had passed the head of the ravine. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when Peanut reappeared, he found the rest ready for bed. Rob gave Peanut’s sore heel a fresh dressing, and then everybody turned in, lying close together for warmth. As they were dozing off, Peanut suddenly exclaimed, “Hang it!” in a loud tone.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Art crossly. “Go to sleep!”
“I forgot to carve on my stick how far we’ve walked to-day,” said Peanut.
“Well, you can do it to-morrow, can’t you? Shut up now!”
“Oh, very well,” said Peanut, relapsing into silence, and then into sleep—the sleep of the utterly weary.