LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“We are now, I think, in proper climbing trim. An X-ray worn as a miner’s lamp would prove serviceable, but may be dispensed with. Forward, march!”
We filed out on a long narrow porch, the surface of which had a thick slippery coating, caused by continual rains. It was as slippery as if both greased and soaped. An iron rake leaning against the wall gave to our careful leader another inspiration. Passing it to Bert, he remarked, “If our esteemed brother will insert the iron teeth of this implement in the girdle of the rear lady, giving it a secure twist, it may be of invaluable service to us when the actual ascent begins.” The “brother” complied with cheerful alacrity, especially as to the “secure twist.”
At the end of the porch a door opened into a dark closet. Directly opposite was an extremely narrow stairway, almost as nearly perpendicular as a fire-escape, with sides roughly boarded up. It was as dark as Erebus, with not a ray of light except a faint glimmer from above. Looking up this black funnel, Tom’s elaborate preparations seemed less preposterous. He now called out, “Brother Chadband, is the hoisting apparatus in position?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the unclerical response.
“Very well; now, ladies, cling bravely to the rope. Plant your alpenstocks firmly with each advancing step. Be cool, be calm. Keep your eyes fixed upon the summit, and don’t look back.”
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