“That’s enough, in this heat,” the Scout Master replied. “Better fill canteens at the next spring, Rob,” he called ahead. “I don’t know whether we’ll get any more water to Lafayette. I’ve forgotten this trail.” At the next spring they all took a long drink and a long rest. Shortly after, they emerged above timber, and found themselves to the northwest of the peak of Liberty, and almost at its base, while ahead of them the path pointed up the rocky ledges toward Haystack. With full canteens to add to their load, they plodded on. Now they could see below them, far down into the Notch, and across the Notch they could see the steep side of Kinsman going up, and the peak where they had unfurled the flag on the Fourth of July. They began to realize for the first time, too, how difficult it could become in a cloud to keep the path, for where the trail led over bare rocks it was almost indistinguishable under foot, and you had to look ahead to find a pile of stones, or a place where it wound through the mountain cranberries or other Alpine plants, to find it. The sun was very hot on their backs, and all of them, under the blankets and knapsacks, were perspiring freely. “I’m wringing wet,” said Peanut. “Wish we had the Pool right here. Would I go in? Hm----” [Illustration: Echo Lake, Franconia Notch, and Mount Lafayette from Bald Mountain] But this lofty, bare space was also swept by a breeze, which curiously enough dried the perspiration on their faces, and when they paused to rest, taking off their packs, dried out their shirts so rapidly that the evaporation made them cold. Once on top of Haystack, their way over the summit of the ridge lay plain before them, the view opened out on both sides, and they dropped their burdens to have a long look. Straight ahead, the path dropped down to the col between Haystack and Lincoln--a col being the connecting spine, ridge, or saddle between two peaks. This col was certainly a spine, bare, wind-swept, narrow, nothing but an edge of gray tumbled rock. The mountain dropped down sharply on both sides, and the boys exclaimed, almost in a breath: “Gee, I’d hate to cross that with the winter storms sweeping it!” “I’d hate to be anywhere above timber line, in a winter storm,” said Mr. Rogers, “unless I was dressed like Peary on his dash to the Pole, and the path was plain.” It was perhaps a mile across the col to Lincoln. “And beyond that another mile or more--up all the way--to Lafayette!” the Scout Master cried. “Shall we make Lafayette before we lunch, or not?”