Peanut fished in his rear pocket and produced his purse. “I’ve got enough to buy breakfast, if the caretaker’ll sell us any, and a sleeper home,” he announced. “Golly, though, where’s my return ticket!” He began searching wildly in all his pockets, while the others investigated their pocketbooks, to see if they had their tickets. Peanut finally dashed back into the hut, and discovered his in his pack. The tickets were from Fabyans, however, and as they would reach the railroad at Randolph, some miles east, there would be a small extra fare. All the boys had money enough left for the trip, and for breakfast as well. “I’ll shout you all to supper on the train,” said Mr. Rogers. “Let’s save all our grub for a whacking big farewell luncheon in King’s Ravine, and buy breakfast here, eh?” “You’re on,” the Scouts replied, and they hastened back into the hut, where the two men joined them. The caretaker finally agreed to give the boys breakfast out of his own stores, though he didn’t seem very keen about it. Usually, he only cooks meals for visitors at the hut when they provide the food. “How do you get the food up here?” Peanut asked him. “The birds bring it,” he said. “You think you’re Joshua, don’t you?” Peanut retorted. “Why?” asked the man, looking puzzled. “’Cause he was fed by the ravens. Wake up and hear the birdies,” Peanut laughed. “Now will you tell me?” The man grunted, and made no reply. (“I suppose he has to pack it up from Randolph,” one of the men whispered. “It’s no cinch, either.”) Breakfast over, the boys paid fifty cents each for their night’s lodging, and a dollar and a half for cooking dinner and the breakfast. Then they set out for the summit of Madison, before descending to the railroad. The sharp cone of Madison rose directly behind the hut. Indeed, you could step from the roof of the hut in the rear out onto the rocks. It was only a twenty minute climb, without packs, for the hut is 4,828 feet above the sea, and Madison, the last of the Presidentials, is only 5,380. From the top they had their last high prospect, and they drank it in to the full. Eastward, they looked out over the ravine of the Peabody River to the timbered slopes of the Moriahs and Carter’s Dome, another group of mountains which lured their feet. Beyond them was the state of Maine. Southward, over the Great Gulf, was Chandler Ridge, with the Chandler River leaping down its steep side, like a ribbon of silver. South westward lay the bare stone pyramids of Adams and the two lesser Adamses (Jefferson was hidden) and finally the great bulk of Washington to the left of Clay, lying high above them all, far off against the blue sky. Due west, they looked down into the yawning hole of King’s Ravine. It was a mighty prospect of bare rocks piled more than a mile in air, of great gulfs between them, of far green valleys and far blue hills.