“So do I,” said Peanut. “I like it, though! Way up in the clouds above everybody--not a sound but the win----” Just at that moment, seemingly from the gray cloud over their heads, rang out the call of a bugle! Everybody stopped short, and exclaimed, “What’s that?” “We aren’t up to the top yet,” said Mr. Rogers. “Somebody must be coming down.” “Hello, yourself!” yelled Peanut, at the top of his lungs. There was a sharp toot on the bugle, and as the Scouts moved forward up the trail, they presently saw dim figures above them, moving down. A moment later and the parties met. The newcomers were five men, with packs and poles. One of them had a bugle slung from his shoulder. “Is Miss Alice Brown in your party?” they called as soon as they came in sight. “Here I am,” the girl said. “What is it?” She had gone white again, and hung on Rob’s arm. “We’re looking for you, that’s all,” said the five men, as the parties met. “Is your companion here?” “I’m here--we’re both here, thanks to these boys and their leader,” the man replied. “How did you know we were coming up?” “How did we know?” said the man with the bugle. “Miss Brown’s parents have been spending $7,333,641.45 telephoning to the summit to find out if you had arrived. As soon as we got word that the lower ridges had cleared, we started down to look for you.” “Oh, poor mamma!” cried the girl. “Well, she’ll be waiting for you with her ear glued to the other end of the wire when you get up--never fear,” the bugler said. Then he turned to Mr. Rogers. “Where did you ride her out? The shelter?” he asked. “Yes,” the Scout Master replied. “That shelter certainly justified itself to-day.” “Good!” said the other. “Score one more for the Appalachian Club. It was the worst July storm I ever saw on the mountain. A hundred miles an hour on top, and the thermometer down to twenty-two.” He moved on up the trail beside Mr. Rogers and one or two of the Scouts. “Greenhorns, of course?” he queried, in a low tone, nodding back toward the man and girl. “Tried it without any food, or enough clothes, or even a compass, I’ll bet?” “Exactly,” the Scout Master answered. “They were following us--expected to make the top in time to catch the train down. Thought it was a pleasant morning stroll, I suppose. They caught us under Monroe, when the weather was first thickening up nasty. The girl had wrenched her ankle, and it seemed wiser to make the shelter than to try to get back to the Mount Pleasant trail, and then way down Pleasant to Bretton Woods, in the teeth of the gale.” “Quite right,” said the other. “Did you have any trouble with the path?” “A good deal,” Mr. Rogers answered. “Art, here, and I were picking it up, and we didn’t let on, but it was hard work, especially with that icy gale in your face. It ought to have at least double the number of cairns between Monroe and the summit cone. I really thought I’d lost it once, but we picked up the next cairn before we got nervous.”