THE party were descending Pillar in the cool of the day; at least to all reasonable men it should have been the cool of the day, but the leader had been energetic and soulless, and his rebellious following had for once trailed behind in a state of drugged complaisance.
They had stood on the summit of High Man more times in one day than any other mortal, except Mr. Kelly, does in the course of a climbing season, and this not through any exceptional speed or agility on their part, but by stolidly struggling up the succession of short and easy climbs that have been provided on the East side of the rock. They had not even paused once during their many visits to the top for the traditional game of giving fictitious names with a weighty air to all the multitude of hills and tarns that could be seen, as the day, though hot, had been wonderfully clear.
They had eaten immoderately of the various parching foodstuffs that are common to climbing expeditions as to picnics, but – and here we approach the heart of the matter – they had not drunk since well before midday. For on the way along the High Level Path in the morning they had tried to forestall the thirst to come by using a small stream that crosses the track: there is a little rock cup, set right in the very path, and through it a constant trickle of cool water Bows; there you can drink with none of the discomfort usual to mountain streams, slowly – in the way that pleases you best, without gasps for breath or the icy cascade that runs up your sleeves, no matter how you stoop. You know it well. You, too, have panted up the grassy steeps of Looking Stead on the way to Pillar, cursing the quixotic scruples that made you pass by the ample waters of Gathrestone Beck with such determined aversion of your perspiring faces. Then, when through ages of time you have tramped sturdily along the High Level, till you seem to have come almost to the shadow of Robinson’s Cairn, you light upon it, this rill of comfort set in a waterless land.
So evening finds our party clambering down from Jordan Gap to get to the path, and in the heated brain of the Leader was burnt the memory of that stream of the morning and he was filled with a determination to endure his great thirst till he should quench it worthily at those pleasant waters. So to please a whim was the die cast. for to his view it would have seemed unlucky in the extreme to drink at any other place, wherefore we shall from now on call him the Superstitious Man.
Now you shall hear the true wickedness of the Superstitious Man, and gloat with us over his subsequent misery. He was one who had by heart all a leader’s possible privileges, and always he sought to increase his authority over those who were fortunate enough to climb behind him, while he conscientiously avoided such menial tasks as coiling the rope or carrying a rucksack. He remembered how far and how toilsome of approach the stream had been that morning, and considered that to return there was a short and easy journey. Here was his chance to improve the discipline of his party with little discomfort to himself, and his decree went out that there should be no drinking till the stream was reached.
His followers set out along the path in an attitude of suppressed rebellion, and were resolutely hurried past several tempting trickles. The way began to lengthen out, and with it the face of the Superstitious Man. Suppose the stream had already been passed? Insidious suggestion; and yet he began to range ahead, for if it were not found his authority would be for ever gone. His mind recalled the stories of his youth, stories of mirages in the desert where visions of faery pools had lured on unfortunate travellers. ht each turn in the path, and you must be in like case to know how viciously serpentine such a path can become, there was a prospect of little dells and hollows where might lark water and the salvation of his credit; each of these when reached proved more arid than the last. Remorse ate into his heart at the thought of all the cool streams his foolish pride had passed, now in memory swelled to what delectable size and number.
Now there was also a Reasonable Man, he who knew to a nicety the right proportion between his girth and the width of a chimney, and who refused to stir if he considered that at any time this equation could not be solved; moreover, he disliked the voice of authority. He began now to bewail that he had passed thirsty by so many excellent waters through .html man’s folly, and to express his intention of drinking at the next source, however meagre. For this de6ance the Superstitious Man turned and rent him, denounced his sordid materialism, and dubbed him a Heretic. But the Heretic was supported by the Feminine Element, who, though a novice, had throughout showed a very proper con- tempt for her leader’s judgment and ability, and had not the Philosopher, the fourth member of the party, maintained his usual aloof and uncomplaining pose, it might have gone ill with the Superstitious Man.
As it was, he continued the interminable trudge with outward dignity, though tortured by a parched throat and the blow to his authority, till the slope of Looking Stead loomed before him, and all hope of salvation seemed to have fled.
Yet our tale, as all tales should, must have its happy ending; and as he dejectedly rounded what appeared to be the last and most unpromising turn of the path, there before him flowed the blessed stream. He turned in triumph – gone were remorse and humility – struck a Napoleonic attitude, and in a few chosen words gathered up the shreds of his broken prestige, while even the Heretic, when dignity should have constrained him to pass by on the other side, bowed his ponderous form to the ground, and lapped like a dog,