In Dunstan's roadster Minga was advocating a swift rush that should pass the car ahead and gain the summit speedily. Sard and the young lawyer tried by their own prudence to communicate that saving quality to the others; here a driver shook his fist at some dare-devil brother, who passed him close to the ledge, thereby badly crowding his neighbors, who in turn swished into the road gutter until passed by one or two speed cranks trying to beat each other. When at last every car had reached the summit there were confident giggles, little gasps from the girls and a catcall of triumph, a harassed ejaculation from the masculine drivers. As they parked the machines in an orderly row on the mountain top, the great lights glared and the black forms crouched in powerful bulk on the uneven roadway, while the short-skirted, jaunty figures alighted with mingled sighs and stretches of relief. "Moon's doing pretty well to-night," said Dunstan. He kissed his hand to it, calling up to the sky, "All right, Mr. God, we like your little old scout moon. Some sky-dynamo, what? Savez? We like it!" They moved about, pawing with their feet, seeking out the path over the mountain top. Their shadows were elongated in the moonlight, for them there were adventure and mystery in the bushes all about; scents of spearmints and bay and the curious smell of rocky plants came to them. One lad sniffed the air. "I smell chewing-gum," he announced. "I smell home brew stills," shouted another youth, as he leaped up and grasped a branch like a young monkey. "Right-o, lead on to your treasure cave and your fair women slaves." "We got the fair women slaves right here," insisted another cub person; "all we need now is a cave and the cavemen will proceed to register. Look your prettiest, maidens. Put on your skins, your other skins, and your necklaces." The hilarity, rather artificial, was the organized hilarity of the "young" groups of the day; like the cheers of the colleges, the competitive "rah-rahs" of directed "sides," the "fun" was stimulated by rather jaded fun-leaders; so, as they entered the wooded plateau where the organ builder's house stood, they were fairly howling and bawling with self-conscious youth and the sense of "whooping it up." "Oh, Watts Shipman," shouted a Yale sophomore. "Oh, Watts Shipman, put out your head." "Oh, you criminal lawyer," howled another boy, "free the slaves, burn the Bastille, burn the pastilles--Rah--Rah--Rah! We want Terence, the great cut-throat of the Hudson," and so in the pale sanctity of the moonlight the group stumbled on, plunging, exhilarated, a little uncertain and undecided and becoming increasingly silly. At some not very emphatic shrieks, giggles and rather over-done kissing sounds, Sard turned sharply. The girl, hatless, a little glint in her eyes, faced them. "I don't like this; you know it's--it's not sensible." "Ah," they said, "ah, the lady doesn't like it."