Toby, who is a reincarnated mountain goat, scrambled up with careless abandon. Murray took it without comment. Martha, suddenly stricken with horizontal fever, was yanked up bodily. When it came to my turn, I got halfway up without trouble, but there the thought struck me that Mr. Wetherell was a dreadfully peaked man to be the only thing between me and the San Juan river. I wished that he had sat still in his youth long enough to fatten up a bit. I called to him to sit heavy, and he called back to straighten my knees and keep away from the cliff. My knees, however, will not straighten on high; instead they vibrate excitably. As for throwing my body voluntarily out from that friendly cliff,--the only bit of mother earth, though at a peculiar angle, within several hundred feet,--it hardly seemed sensible. I did not wait to reach the top to decide that it was too hot to climb to the bridge, and I think the others went through a similar mental process, for when I thankfully was pulled over the edge, I heard several people say, “Awfully hot, isn’t it? Pretty hot to go much further?” The Golfer was the last and heaviest to come up the rope. Halfway up, his arms shot out wildly, and I heard a gasp of horror, and far below, plop, plop, saw one hard rubber ball after another leap as the chamois from crag to crag, and join the river below. He had tied the box of balls insecurely, it seemed. For the moment we could hardly have felt worse if it had been the Golfer himself. A baker’s dozen went where no caddy could find them. From our pockets we collected eleven balls, with which to perform the deed which had brought us toilfully through these perils. We could see only the keystone of the Bridge from the summit of our cliff, but its surface offered a good approach. Murray took the first drive. His ball made a magnificent arc, grazed the top of the Bridge, seemed to hesitate a moment, then fell on the near side. Then came the Golfer’s turn. He approached it several times, but something seemed wrong. He cast a look in our direction. We had been frivolously talking. He drove, but the ball glanced to one side and disappeared. “Better luck,” he said, passing the club to Murray. But Murray had no better luck, and the two alternated until it seemed as if the San Juan must be choked with golf balls.