That afternoon our expedition, in two sections, moved forward. The
first section comprised myself and all the mules; the second section
was commanded by Professor Smawl, followed by Professor Van Twiller,
armed with a tiny shot-gun. William, loaded down with the ladies'
toilet articles, skulked in the rear. I say skulked; there was no
other word for it.
"So you're a guide, are you?" observed Professor Smawl when William,
cap in hand, had approached her with well-meant advice. "The woods are
full of lazy guides. Pick up those Gladstone bags! I'll do the guiding
for this expedition."
Made cautious by William's humiliation, I associated with the mules
exclusively. Nevertheless, Professor Smawl had her hard eyes on me,
and I realized she meant mischief.
The encounter took place just as I, driving the five mules, entered
the great mountain gateway, thrilled with anticipation which almost
amounted to foreboding. As I was about to set foot across the
imaginary frontier which divided the world from the unknown land,
Professor Smawl hailed me and I halted until she came up.
"As commander of this expedition," she said, somewhat out of breath,
"I desire to be the first living creature who has ever set foot
behind the Graham Glacier. Kindly step aside, young sir!"
"Madam," said I, rigid with disappointment, "my guide, William Spike,
entered that unknown land a year ago."
"He _says_ he did," sneered Professor Smawl.
"As you like," I replied; "but it is scarcely generous to forestall
the person whose stupidity gave you the clew to this unexplored
region."
"You mean yourself?" she asked, with a stony stare.
"I do," said I, firmly.
Her little, hard eyes grew harder, and she clutched her umbrella until
the steel ribs crackled.
"Young man," she said, insolently; "if I could have gotten rid of you
I should have done so the day I was appointed president. But Professor
Farrago refused to resign unless your position was assured, subject,
of course, to your good behavior. Frankly, I don't like you, and I
consider your views on science ridiculous, and if an opportunity
presents itself I will be most happy to request your resignation.
Kindly collect your mules and follow me."
Mortified beyond measure, I collected my mules and followed my
president into the strange country behind the Hudson Mountains--I who
had aspired to lead, compelled to follow in the rear, driving mules.
The journey was monotonous at first, but we shortly ascended a ridge
from which we could see, stretching out below us, the wilderness
where, save the feet of William Spike, no human feet had passed.
As for me, tingling with enthusiasm, I forgot my chagrin, I forgot the
gross injustice, I forgot my mules. "Excelsior!" I cried, running up
and down the ridge in uncontrollable excitement at the sublime
spectacle of forest, mountain, and valley all set with little lakes.
"Excelsior!" repeated an excited voice at my side, and Professor Van
Twiller sprang to the ridge beside me, her eyes bright as stars.
Exalted, inspired by the mysterious beauty of the view, we clasped
hands and ran up and down the grassy ridge.
"That will do," said Professor Smawl, coldly, as we raced about like a
pair of distracted kittens. The chilling voice broke the spell; I
dropped Professor Van Twiller's hand and sat down on a bowlder, aching
with wrath.
Late that afternoon we halted beside a tiny lake, deep in the unknown
wilderness, where purple and scarlet bergamot choked the shores and
the spruce-partridge strutted fearlessly under our very feet. Here we
pitched our two tents. The afternoon sun slanted through the pines;
the lake glittered; acres of golden brake perfumed the forest silence,
broken only at rare intervals by the distant thunder of a partridge
drumming.
Professor Smawl ate heavily and retired to her tent to lie torpid
until evening. William drove the unloaded mules into an intervale full
of sun-cured, fragrant grasses; I sat down beside Professor Van
Twiller.
The wilderness is electric. Once within the influence of its currents,
human beings become positively or negatively charged, violently
attracting or repelling each other.
"There is something the matter with this air," said Professor Van
Twiller. "It makes me feel as though I were desperately enamoured of
the entire human race."
She leaned back against a pine, smiling vaguely, and crossing one knee
over the other.
Now I am not bold by temperament, and, normally, I fear ladies.
Therefore it surprised me to hear myself begin a frivolous _causerie_,
replying to her pretty epigrams with epigrams of my own, advancing to
the borderland of badinage, fearlessly conducting her and myself over
that delicate frontier to meet upon the terrain of undisguised
flirtation.
It was clear that she was out for a holiday. The seriousness and
restraints of twenty-two years she had left behind her in the
civilized world, and now, with a shrug of her young shoulders, she
unloosened her burden of reticence, dignity, and responsibility and
let the whole load fall with a discreet thud.
"Even hares go mad in March," she said, seriously. "I know you intend
to flirt with me--and I don't care. Anyway, there's nothing else to
do, is there?"
"Suppose," said I, solemnly, "I should take you behind that big tree
and attempt to kiss you!"
The prospect did not appear to appall her, so I looked around with
that sneaking yet conciliatory caution peculiar to young men who are
novices in the art. Before I had satisfied myself that neither William
nor the mules were observing us, Professor Van Twiller rose to her
feet and took a short step backward.
"Let's set traps for a dingue," she said, "will you?"
I looked at the big tree, undecided. "Come on," she said; "I'll show
you how." And away we went into the woods, she leading, her kilts
flashing through the golden half-light.
Now I had not the faintest notion how to trap the dingue, but
Professor Van Twiller asserted that it formerly fed on the tender tips
of the spruce, quoting Darwin as her authority.
So we gathered a bushel of spruce-tips, piled them on the bank of a
little stream, then built a miniature stockade around the bait, a foot
high. I roofed this with hemlock, then laboriously whittled out and
adjusted a swinging shutter for the entrance, setting it on springy
twigs.
"The dingue, you know, was supposed to live in the water," she said,
kneeling beside me over our trap.