There is probably no pleasure equal to the pleasure of climbing a
dangerous Alp; but it is a pleasure which is confined strictly to people
who can find pleasure in it. I have not jumped to this conclusion; I
have traveled to it per gravel train, so to speak. I have thought the
whole thing out, and am quite sure I am right. A born climber’s appetite
for climbing is hard to satisfy; when it comes upon him he is like a
starving man with a feast before him; he may have other business on
hand, but it must wait. Mr. Girdlestone had had his usual summer holiday
in the Alps, and had spent it in the usual way, hunting for unique
chances to break his neck; his vacation was over, and his luggage packed
for England, but all of a sudden a hunger had come upon him to climb the
tremendous Weisshorn once more, for he had heard of a new and utterly
impossible route up it. His baggage was unpacked at once, and now he and
a friend, laden with knapsacks, ice-axes, coils of rope, and canteens of
milk, were just setting out. They would spend the night high up among
the snows, somewhere, and get up at two in the morning and finish the
enterprise. I had a strong desire to go with them, but forced it down—a
feat which Mr. Girdlestone, with all his fortitude, could not do.