But we could spare no time for lingering; we had yet to put many more miles between us and Soloheadbeg. We resumed our journey towards the mountains. At Keville’s Cross we crossed the Cahir and Tipperary Road. The cold was bitter, and the wind was piercing. The only other living things we saw out in the open were two mountain goats, spancelled together near the cross-roads. Several times we lost our way after that. We dare not call to a strange wayside farmhouse, for at that time the people had not learned to keep a shut mouth. At one point Sean Treacy fell into a drain about twenty feet deep, and we thought he was killed. When we got him out we found he was little the worse for his fall, and he assured us he would fire another shot before handing in his gun. We continued our journey towards the summit. Once when we had traversed the Glen and climbed Galteemore’s rugged slopes from the Tipperary side, we lost our bearings on the top. In the height of the summer you will find it chilly enough on Galteemore. You can imagine how we felt that evening in the heart of winter. It had taken us three hours to climb, but after all our exertions we wandered back to the two goats—back to our starting-point. In despair we abandoned all hope of crossing the mountain. As Sean Hogan said then, “’tis all very well for poets sitting in easy chairs at the fireside to write about the beauties of mountains, but if they had to climb them as we had, hungry and cold, they would be in no mood to appreciate the beauties of nature.” When we returned to Keville’s Cross we decided on a new plan. We crossed on to the railway line, and determined to face for Cahir. It was lucky we did so. We had not gone many miles along the line when we saw the lights of the military lorries that were scouring the roads in search of us. Had we been down on the road we could never have avoided them. A railway is a tiresome road to travel, even at ordinary times. For us in our condition that night it was cruel. Yet we had to keep on. Once in the thick darkness I saw a black figure a few paces ahead. I was walking in front and promptly levelled my revolver, with the order “hands up!” The figure remained motionless, having apparently halted at my command. I advanced, with my gun still levelled, and walked into a railway signpost with the warning, “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” Unhappy though our plight was, the boys laughed at my mistake, and I had to laugh myself with them. A little farther on Sean Hogan asked us to stop for a moment, as his boot was feeling loose. Sean Treacy tied the lace, but he did not travel much farther till he again complained that it was loose. Sean stopped to examine it, and found that the whole boot was practically worn away by the rocks and boulders. Only a bit of a sole and the laced portion of the upper remained.