The starting point of the climb was a glade at the foot of Bald Mountain, and the goal a flat rock beyond the mountain’s outthrust shoulder, both the shoulder and the rock being well-known landmarks. A score of men from the summer cottages in the village were at the starting point when Merriwell’s party arrived, and two had been sent on some time before to station themselves at the rock, that the time occupied in the ascent and the victors in the contest might be accurately determined. “Hammond’s fellows don’t seem to be here,” declared Rattleton, stabbing his alpinstock in the ground, and looking about. “I don’t doubt they will come all right,” Merriwell hastened to say. “Meebe dey ain’ got ober shoutin’ ’bout dat swim yit!” observed Toots, a smile of pleasurable recollection lighting his ebony face. “Here they come, just the same,” announced Bart Hodge. “They’ve got sand, and that’s something to praise them for. It’s my opinion, too, that they’ll give us a hard climb, for most of them are familiar with these mountains and hardened to such work.” Ward Hammond was diplomatic enough on his arrival to try to conceal the intense hatred he felt for Frank Merriwell. He recognized that Craig Carter had made a sad mess of it by striking at Frank with the oar. Even Hammond’s friends had denounced this as a criminal and cowardly piece of work. As for Craig, he held himself aloof from the joking and conversation, and was not without a fear that Merriwell would seek to punish him yet for his contemptible conduct. But Merriwell’s victory in the swimming match had been so complete that he chose to pass the matter by without comment, instead of dealing blow for blow. The starter looked at his watch. “The party, or any member of either party, that reaches the rock first is to be counted winner. The object is to reach the rock in the shortest possible time.” Browning glanced up at the mountain, and groaned, as Merriwell grouped his party, and the boys broke into a hearty laugh. “It is now nine o’clock,” said the starter, when all were ready. “You ought to do it in two hours, or less. I won’t attempt to give you any advice. You know what’s before you. Go!” Ward Hammond led off at a sharp run, swinging his alpinstock and taking the path that led toward the right, while Sep Colson, who had been chosen to lead the Lake Lily Club, because of his greater familiarity with the ground to be covered, swung into the path that wound around the mountain on the left. “It’s a little farther,” he said, “but the traveling is easier, and we’ll make better time.” Frank Merriwell crowded close to Colson’s heels, and others fell in behind him, with Hans Dunnerwust bringing up the rear. “Yes, this is what I call fun!” grunted Browning, as a bowlder slipped under him and he half fell. “Be afther takin’ a little more quoinin’ to roise yer spairts,” advised Barney Mulloy, with a grin.