“Only nine miles for yesterday!” said Art. “And think of the work we did.” “One mile against that hurricane is about equal to fifteen on the level, I guess,” said Peanut. “Shall we call it eight plus fifteen?” “You can, if you want to be a nature fakir,” Rob answered. “What’s the total to-day? Who’s got the guide book?” “Let’s see,” said Frank, turning the pages. “Two miles from the summit to the Lakes of the Clouds, half a mile back to Boott Spur Trail, from the junction with the Crawford Path over the spur to here, two and a half miles--that’s five. Then from here to the snow arch and back, one and a half--six and a half. Then a quarter of a mile to Raymond Path, half a mile to Huntington Trail, two miles to the Fan; double it and you get five miles and a half. That makes twelve miles, not counting our climb of the head wall, or what we’ll do later to-day.” “Guess we’ll not do much more,” said Peanut. “Sure, we’ll walk up the ravine and see the snow arch by moonlight. Add a mile and a half more,” said Art. “Grand total, thirteen and a half. Golly, you can get fairly tired doing thirteen miles on Mount Washington, can’t you?” “And tolerably hungry,” said Frank. “That spinach smells good to me.” “We’re going to have bacon, and an omelet, and spinach, and tea, and flapjacks,” said Art. “Doesn’t that sound good?” “Well, go ahead and get ’em ready,” Peanut said, flopping backward upon the old hemlock boughs in the shelter, and immediately closing his eyes. Nobody did nor said much for the next hour. There came one of those lazy lulls which hit you once in so often when you are tramping, and you just naturally lie back and take life easy, half asleep, half awake. It was half-past five, and getting dusky in the ravine, when suddenly a hermit thrush in the firs right behind the cabin emitted a peal of song, so startling in its nearness and beauty that every one of the six dozers roused with a start. “Say, that’s some Caruso!” exclaimed Peanut. He rubbed his eyes, and added, “What’s the matter with you, Art? Where’s supper? You’re fired!” Art laughed, and jumped out of the shelter, giving orders as he went. “Water, Lou. Rob and Frank, more wood. Peanut, you lazy stiff, get out the bacon and light the lantern. Mr. Rogers, more boughs for the beds.” “Yes, sir,” the others laughed, as they scattered quickly on their errands. It was dark when supper was ready, and outside of the cozy shelter of the cabin and the great boulder facing it, with the fire burning briskly, it was cold. The boys had all put on their sweaters. But the boulder threw the warmth of the fire back under the lean-to, and they sat along the edge of it, their plates on their laps, the fragrance of new steeped tea in their nostrils, and of sizzling bacon, and made a meal which tasted like ambrosia. The spinach was an especial luxury, for this time it had soaked long enough to be soft and palatable. Their only regret was that Art hadn’t cooked more of it.