eath. "It's the last chapter,
he's nearly dry."

The trail was narrow and newly cut. Treading at first on smooth rock,
the Philadelphians took it briskly, jumping over stones and logs and
pausing now and then at vistas of the lake. They were a little short
of breath when the path dipped to low ground and struck straight across
a tangled ravine. Here the bush was thicker, and the air warm and
moist. Gradually the four coats came off.

"Hold on a minute, Clark," panted Stoughton who was beginning to sweat.

"It's better over here, come along."

But if it was better they did not notice it. Wimperley stumbled over a
root and plunged one hand up to the wrist in slimy mud. Riggs was
breathing hard and his nostrils dilated, but he plugged doggedly on.
Birch, now very red in the face, stepped close behind Stoughton, his
cheeks stinging from the swish of branches released by the man just
ahead. Stoughton, his heart pumping, was in the lead, and desperately
trying to catch the steadily progressing figure of Clark. He felt
almost like murder. Ten minutes more and the Philadelphians had lost
all traces of refinement. Wimperley's trousers were torn at the knee
and his white, scratched skin showed through. Riggs had dropped coat
and waistcoat beside the trail, his collar was off, his small body
tired and twisted, and from his lips streamed language to which he had
long been a stranger. Birch had lagged far behind but plowed on with a
cold determination. He was breathing audibly through his nose, his
watch chain was dangling on a cedar branch a quarter of a mile back, a
sharp pain throbbed in a barked shin and his boots were full of water.
Still in the lead was Stoughton, who, regardless of all else, had put
down his head and was crashing heavily through the underbrush like a
young bull moose answering the call of his distant and amorous mate.
Clark was quite invisible. Presently the four halted. Humanity had
gone its limit. Birch dragged himself up and they stared at each other
with furious eyes.

"Lend me a handkerchief," panted Riggs.

Stoughton felt in his pocket, pulling one out with a cascade of pine
needles, when from three hundred feet ahead came a voice:

"I'm where we stop, you fellows, come on up."

"That's just where he is." Birch's difficult speech had something in
it that was almost deadly. "He's asked for it and he's going to get it
right here. Come on."

They trailed slowly up, a small, b