"Well, she'll be waiting for you with her ear glued to the other end of the wire when you get up—never fear," the bugler said. Then he turned to Mr. Rogers. "Where did you ride her out? The shelter?" he asked.
"Yes," the Scout Master replied. "That shelter certainly justified itself to-day."
"Good!" said the other. "Score one more for the Appalachian Club. It was the worst July storm I ever saw on the mountain. A hundred miles an hour on top, and the thermometer down to twenty-two."
He moved on up the trail beside Mr. Rogers and one or two of the Scouts.
"Greenhorns, of course?" he queried, in a low tone, nodding back toward the man and girl. "Tried it without any food, or enough clothes, or even a compass, I'll bet?"
"Exactly," the Scout Master answered. "They were following us—expected to make the top in time to catch the train down. Thought it was a pleasant morning stroll, I suppose. They caught us under Monroe, when the weather was first thickening up nasty. The girl had wrenched her ankle, and it seemed wiser to make the shelter than to try to get back to the Mount Pleasant trail, and then way down Pleasant to Bretton Woods, in the teeth of the gale."
"Quite right," said the other. "Did you have any trouble with the path?"
