and were in consequence death on the divinities. I
genuinely pitied the divinities!

Well--mind, as I wasn't in the affair, I can only relate it as I heard
it--a very curious adventure happened to Magnus Minor and my young
brother, shortly after this.

It was in the holidays, and we went, as usual, to Llandudno; and oddly
enough, Magnus's people went there too. The two chums consequently had
an opportunity of feeding the fires that consumed them, and of carrying
on their feud with the Greek gods in boats and bathing machines, on the
Great Orme's Head, and in the pier refreshment-room. Whenever I came
across them they were still implacable; and once or twice I believe they
actually spoke to one another on the subject, which shows how deeply
they felt.

One day they made up their minds to do Snowdon, and with a respectable
basket of provender, and an alpenstock apiece (on which the name of the
mountain--in fact, several mountains, had already been cut), they
started off by the train to Llanberis.

Magnus minor, being an athlete, occupied most of the journey in training
himself on cold boiled eggs and damsons; while Joe, being a poet, read
somebody's "Half Holiday" in a corner.

At the place where the train stopped they got out, and wondered whether
they had not already had enough of it. It was a grilling hot day. They
hadn't an idea which was the way to Snowdon, and nobody seemed to know.
A railway porter said "Second to the right"; but they could see he was
humbugging. As if a mountain _could_ be up a turning!

"Let's jack it up," said Magnus, who was feeling a little depressed
after the damsons.

"Eh?" said Joe, "there's no train back to what's-his-name for two hours.
What would it cost to cab it up?"

"Oh, pots," said Magnus. "I tell you what--we might have a go of
ginger-beer somewhere, and see how we feel after that."

Whereupon in silence they found out the leading hotel or the place, and
expended sixpence apiece on ginger-beer, at threepence a bottle.

Naturally they felt much refreshed after this, and, without
condescending to further parley, decided to stroll on; only, as the
porter had mentioned a turning to the right, they selected a turning to
the left as decidedly more probable.

It may have been Snowdon, or it may not--in any case it was a hill, and
a stiff one.

Magnus, the athlete, taking out his watch, said he meant to do it under
twenty minutes, and begged Joe to time him.

Joe,