Now, I had seen this volume before, and its title was _Rambles among the Alps_, by Whymper, the great Alpine and Himalayan climber. This pernicious volume had had a most demoralising effect upon Ransson. I had frequently noticed that whenever we came to a particularly bad place, where there was a choice of climbing or going round, he would climb for preference; whilst I meandered round the base of the peak, he would carefully pick out the most precipitous part of it, where I would look up at him and see him apparently hanging on by one eyebrow and flourishing that infernal book. He talked of “crevasses” and “couloirs” and “glaciers” and other weird things in his sleep, and once, when I caught him tobogganing down a sand-slope on his only pants, and reproached him, he had said disdainfully, “My dear chap, I’m simply practising ‘glissading.’” So when he now got out that book, and got under a rock and lit a bit of candle and began to peruse it, I knew what to expect. I said, “Look here, Ransson, I’m going back.” He said, “I’m going down.” I said, “Right! I’ll bury you when I get there in three days’ time.” “Rot,” he said; “you’ll never make a mountaineer. Why, look what Whymper says----” “Damn Whymper!” I said. “We don’t want Whymper, we want Paulham and Santos Dumont, and aeroplanes and a balloon or two, and a thousand yards of rope. I’m going back!” He said, “You’re not. I’m going to take you down--and the horses.”... And he did. We tried in either direction for about an hour; but my way it only got worse, and I could only hold on, and look over and feel giddy. At times Ransson whooped at me from some awful perch, and I bleated back; then he remembered Whymper again and tried to “yodel.” Luckily, about then, little Samuel shouted to me, and getting back to the horses I found that he had discovered a place where a descent for a man might be practicable, though for horses it looked madness.