down in the great hole of the ravine the shadow of Boott Spur had risen half-way up the east wall toward the Lion's Head, and it seemed like twilight.
"Makes me want supper," Frank laughed.
"I got an idea," said Peanut. "Let's take a loaf. Let's just sit around the camp-fire till supper, and do nothing."
"Let's cut our mileage on our staffs," said Art.
"Hooray!"
Somebody lit the fire, for already the twilight chill was creeping down from the snow-bank, and Art put the pot of dehydrated spinach on to simmer. Then everybody got out his knife and cut mileage.
"Only nine miles for yesterday!" said Art. "And think of the work we did."
"One mile against that hurricane is about equal to fifteen on the level, I guess," said Peanut. "Shall we call it eight plus fifteen?"
"You can, if you want to be a nature fakir," Rob answered. "What's the total to-day? Who's got the guide book?"
"Let's see," said Frank, turning the pages. "Two miles from the summit to the Lakes of the Clouds, half a mile back to Boott Spur Trail, from the junction with the Crawford Path over the spur to here, two and a half miles—that's five. Then from here to the snow arch and back, one and a half—six and a half. Then a quarter of a mile to Raymond Path, half a
