“Sure,” said Peanut. They now came to the snow arch, which is formed every June under the head wall, and sometimes lasts as late as August. The winter storms, from the northwest, blow the snow over Bigelow Lawn above, and pack it down into Tuckerman’s Ravine, in a huge drift two hundred feet deep. This drift gradually melts down, packs into something pretty close to ice, and the water trickling from the cliff behind joins into a brook beneath it and hollows out an arch. The Scouts now stood before the drift. It was perhaps eight or ten feet deep at the front now, and a good deal deeper at the back. It was something like three hundred feet wide, they reckoned, and extended out from the cliff from sixty to a hundred feet. The arch was about in the centre, and the brook was flowing out from beneath it. “Look!” cried Art, “a few rods down-stream the alders are all in leaf, nearer they are just coming out, and here by the edge they are hardly budded!” “That’s right,” said Lou. “I suppose as the ice melts back, spring comes to ’em.” Rob put his hand in the brook. “Gee, I don’t blame ’em,” he said; “it’s free ice water, all right.” “Come on into the ice cave,” Peanut exclaimed, starting forward. Mr. Rogers grabbed him. “No, you don’t!” he cried. “People used to do that, till one day some years ago it caved in, and killed a boy under it. You’ll just look in.” Peanut poked at the edge of the roof with his staff. It looked like snow, but it was hard as ice. “Gee, that won’t cave in!” said he. “Just the same, we’re taking no chances,” said the Scout Master. So the Scouts tried to content themselves with peeking into the cold, crystal cave, out of which came the tinkle of dripping water from the dangling icicles on the roof, and a breath of damp, chilling air. It was like standing at the door of a huge refrigerator. Then they climbed up the path a few steps, on the right of the drift, and made snowballs with the brittle, mushy moraine-stuff on the surface, which was quite dirty, with moss and rock dust blown over from the top of Washington. “Snowballs in July!” cried Peanut, letting one fly at Art, who had walked out on the drift. Art retaliated by washing Peanut’s face. It was getting close to noon now, and the party started back to camp. Hermit Lake was first inspected as a possible swimming pool, but given up because of the boggy nature of the shores. Instead, everybody took one chill plunge in the ice water of the little river which came down from the snow arch, and then they rubbed themselves to a pink glow, and started for the camp. Before they reached camp, Art sniffed, and said, “Smoke! Somebody’s got a fire.” A second later, they heard voices, and came upon two men, building a fire against the boulder in front of the shelter. “Hello, boys. This your stuff?” one of the men said. He was a tall, thin man, with colored goggles and a pointed beard. The other man was short and stout. “Sure is,” Peanut answered.