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“Even if the weather should permit a view,” I said, “what is that compared to the terrible risk to life? Under certain circumstances,” I added (thinking of a kind of waistcoat I had some idea of making, which, set about with little negative-gravity machines, all connected with a conveniently handled screw, would enable the wearer at times to dispense with his weight altogether), “such ascents might be divested of danger, and be quite admissible; but ordinarily they should be frowned upon by the intelligent public.”

The Alpine Club man looked at me, especially regarding my somewhat slight figure and thinnish legs.

“It’s all very well for you to talk that way,” he said, “because it is easy to see that you are not up to that sort of thing.”

“In conversations of this kind,” I replied, “I never make personal allusions; but since you have chosen to do so, I feel inclined to invite you to walk with me to-morrow to the top of the mountain to the north of this town.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, “at any time you choose to name.” And as I left the room soon afterward I heard him laugh.

The next afternoon, about two o’clock, the Alpine Club man and myself set out for the mountain.

“What have you got in your knapsack?” he said.

“A hammer to use if I come across geological specimens, a field-glass, a flask of wine, and some other things.”

“I wouldn’t carry any weight, if I were you,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t mind it,” I answered, and off we started.

The mountain to which we were bound was about two miles from the town. Its nearest side was steep, and in places almost precipitous, but it sloped away more gradually toward the north, and up that side a road led by devious windings to a village near the summit. It was not a very high mountain, but it would do for an afternoon’s climb.

“I suppose you want to go up by the road,” said my companion.

“Oh no,” I answered, “we won’t go so far around as that. There is a path up this side, along which I have seen men driving their goats. I prefer to take that.”

“All right, if you say so,” he answered, with a smile; “but you’ll find it pretty tough.”

After a time he remarked:

“I wouldn’t walk so fast, if I were you.”

“Oh, I like to step along briskly,” I said. And briskly on we went.

My wife had screwed up the machine in the knapsack more than usual, and walking seemed scarcely any effort at all. I carried a long alpenstock, and when we reached the mountain and began the ascent, I found that with the help of this and my knapsack I could go uphill at a wonderful rate. My companion had taken the lead, so as to show me how to climb. Making a detour over some rocks, I quickly passed him and went ahead. After that it was impossible for him to keep up with me. I ran up steep places, I cut off the windings of the path by lightly clambering over rocks, and even when I followed the beaten track my step was as rapid as if I had been walking on level ground.

“Look here!” shouted the Alpine Club man from below, “you’ll kill yourself if you go at that rate! That’s no way to climb mountains.”

“It’s my way!” I cried. And on I skipped.

Twenty minutes after I arrived at the summit my companion joined me, puffing, and wiping his red face with his handkerchief.

“Confound it!” he cried, “I never came up a mountain so fast in my life.”

“You need not have hurried,” I said, coolly.

“I was afraid something would happen to you,” he growled, “and I wanted to stop you. I never saw a person climb in such an utterly absurd way.”

“I don’t see why you should call it absurd,” I said, smiling with an air of superiority. “I arrived here in a perfectly comfortable condition, neither heated nor wearied.”