mile to Huntington Trail, two miles to the Fan; double it and you get five miles and a half. That makes twelve miles, not counting our climb of the head wall, or what we'll do later to-day."
"Guess we'll not do much more," said Peanut.
"Sure, we'll walk up the ravine and see the snow arch by moonlight. Add a mile and a half more," said Art. "Grand total, thirteen and a half. Golly, you can get fairly tired doing thirteen miles on Mount Washington, can't you?"
"And tolerably hungry," said Frank. "That spinach smells good to me."
"We're going to have bacon, and an omelet, and spinach, and tea, and flapjacks," said Art. "Doesn't that sound good?"
"Well, go ahead and get 'em ready," Peanut said, flopping backward upon the old hemlock boughs in the shelter, and immediately closing his eyes.
Nobody did nor said much for the next hour. There came one of those lazy lulls which hit you once in so often when you are tramping, and you just naturally lie back and take life easy, half asleep, half awake. It was half-past five, and getting dusky in the ravine, when suddenly a hermit thrush in the firs right behind the cabin emitted a peal of song, so startling in its nearness and beauty that every one of the six dozers roused with a start.
