After this, except some exploration of the Crags by Mr. H. W. Blunt, it was not visited again by climbers until the New Year of 1899, when Mr. O. G. Jones, with my father, my brother, and myself, found ourselves standing at the bottom of the first pitch. We had expatiated on the difficulty of the second pitch, and Jones was very keen on trying it, having, in fact, come over from Wastdale with us for that purpose. _En route_ to Iron Crag we had climbed a gully on the west side of the _massif_, which consisted of a series of very interesting chimneys, the pleasures of which were greatly enhanced by magnificent views of Derwentwater. This had made us somewhat later than we anticipated, and an animated discussion was held at the bottom as to whether, considering the lateness of the hour and the bad condition of the gully, which was streaming with water, it would not be advisable for two of the party to stay below or go round and join the others at the top. This was decided against; ‘all or none,’ said Jones, so we roped up with him leading. He soon reached the small ledge under the stone, and then stopped to take breath and prospect. ‘Shall I come up to you?’ shouted my brother. ‘No thanks! I’ll have a try from here alone, and you would get wet through in no time up here,’ returned he. This consideration for my brother was utterly unlike him, for, amongst other similar occasions, I well remember one on which, in a gully--or rather waterfall--in Wales, he got wet through on the first pitch, and insisted on our finishing with him all the eight pitches. His look of glee when we emerged from the top of each pitch with the water running down us was a thing to be remembered. However, to return, he jammed his left foot against the left wall of the gully and pressed his back against the other, and almost before we had time to see what had happened, was smiling down on us from the top of the pitch. It was very disgusting to see him just ‘romp’ up the place we had found so difficult the year before, and when I had climbed up to him he smiled sardonically and said, ‘Is that your pitch? Well, really----!’ A small handhold had weathered away since the time of the first ascent, which somewhat simplified the passing over the ‘chock-stone,’ but even now I think most people would find it difficult. We could only apologise and feel small, but, had we known it, there was a surfeit of excitement and difficulty in store for us higher up.