The pedestrian excursion spoken of by Miss Stackpole promised to be an enjoyable affair to those of the Helicon guests who could venture upon it. A writer of oddly entertaining and impossible short stories, John B. Cattleton, had been mousing among the ravines of Mt. Boab, and had stumbled upon what he described as a “very obscure little cabin, jammed under a cliff in an angle of the cañon and right over a bright stream of cold, pure spring-water. It’s a and forlornly prepossessing place,” he went on in his way, “where all sorts of engaging ghosts and entertaining ogres might be supposed to at midnight. I didn’t go quite down to it, but I was near enough to it to make out its main features, and I saw the queerest being imaginable around the . A veritable , I should call[104] him, as old as the rocks themselves. His dress was absurdly old-fashioned, a caricature of the uniform of our soldier sires of revolutionary . A long spike-tailed blue coat with notable buttons, a hat somewhat bell-crowned and tow or cotton trousers. Shirt? Vest? Yes, if I remember well they were of copperas homespun. His hair and beard were white, fine and thin, hanging in tags and wisps as as . I sat upon a rock in the shadow of a tree and watched his queer manœuvres for a good while. All his movements were and , like those of a shy, wild beast.”
“It’s the Prophet of the Smoky Mountain,” said Miss Crabb in an earnest stage whisper. “He’s Craddock’s material, we can’t touch him.”
“Touch him! I’ll interview him on dialect in politics,” said Hubbard, “and get his views on sex in genius.”
“I should like a of his life. There must be a human interest to serve as straw for my brick,” remarked Miss Stackpole. “The that induced him to become a hermit, and all that.”
Miss Crabb dared not confess that she desired a sketch of the old man for the newspaper syndicate, so she merely drummed on her front teeth with her pencil.
Dufour joined the pedestrian party with great enthusiasm, having dressed himself for the occasion in a pair of tennis trousers, a blue shirt, a loose jacket and a shooting cap.
[105]
His shoes were genuine foot-gear with short in their heels and soles.
“Lead on Cattleton,” he cried , “and let our motto be, ‘On to the hut of Friar Tuck’!”
“Good,” answered Cattleton in like spirit, “and you shall be my , come, walk beside me.”
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” replied Dufour, “but I cannot accept. I have contracted to be Miss Moyne’s servant instead.”
That was a gay procession filing away from Hotel Helicon through the thin forest that fringed one shoulder of stately Mt. Boab. Cattleton led the column, flinging back from time to time his odd sayings and .
The day was cool with a steady wind running over the mountain and in the sheltered where the ferns were thick and tall. In the sky were a few pale clouds slowly vanishing, whilst some broad-pinioned buzzards wheeled round and round above the blue-green abyss of the valley. There were sounds of a vague, dreamy sort abroad in the woods, like the whisperings and laughter of legions of invisible beings. Everybody felt exhilarated and buoyant, tramping away to the hut of the hermit.
At a certain point Cattleton commanded a halt, and pointing out the entrance to the ravine, said:
“Now, good friends, we must have perfect[106] silence during the descent, or our visit will be all in vain. Furthermore, the attraction of gravitation demands that, in going down, we must preserve our uprightness, else our progress may be facilitated to an alarming degree, and our at the hut be far from becomingly .”
Like a snake, flecked with touches of gay color, the procession crawled down the ravine, the way becoming steeper and more at every step. Thicker and thicker and thicker grew the trees, saving where the rock broke from the soil, and closer drew the zig-zags of the barely possible route. Cattleton silenced every voice and every person who showed signs of weakening.
“It’s just a few steps farther,” he whispered back from his advanced position, “don’t make the least sound.”
But the ravine proved, upon this second descent much more difficult and dangerous than it had appeared to Cattleton at first, and it was with the most heroic that he finally led the party down to the point whence he had viewed the cabin. By this time the column was pressing upon him and he could not stop. Down he went, faster and faster, barely able to keep his feet, now sliding, now clutching a tree or rock, with the breathless and excited line of dangerous behind him.
It was too late now to command silence or to control the company in any way. An avalanche[107] of little stones, loosened by feet, swept past him and went leaping on down below. He heard Miss Moyne utter a little scream of terror that with many from both men and women, and then he lost his feet and began to slide. Down he sped and down sped the party after him, till in a of frightened, but unharmed men and women, they all went over a little and landed in a heap on a great bed of oak leaves that the winds had drifted against the rock.
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