slipped down a crevice
about 100 feet with the rope on him, and the two guides couldn't pull
him up, and we had to send a lunch down to him on the rope and one of
the guides had to go back to the village for help to get dad up. Well,
sir, I think dad was nearer dead than he ever was before, but they sent
down a bottle of brandy, and when he drank some of it the snow began to
melt and he was warm enough to use bad language.

He yelled to me that this was the limit and wanted to know how long
they were going to keep him there. I yelled to him that one of the
guides had gone for help to pull him out, and he said for them to order
a yoke of oxen. I told him that probably he would have to remain there
until spring opened and that I was going back to America and leave him
there, and he better pray.

[Illustration: Have to remain there until spring opened 183]

I don't know whether dad prayed, down there in the bowels of the
mountains, but he didn't pray when help came, and they finally hauled
him up. His breath was gone, but he gave those guides some language
that would set them to thinking if they could have understood him, and
finally we started down the mountain. They kept the rope on dad and
every little while he would slip and slide 100 feet or so down the
mountain on his pants, and the snow would go up his trousers legs clear
to his collar, and the exercise made him so hot that the steam came out
of his clothes, and he looked like a locomotive wrecked in a snow bank
blowing off steam.

It became dark and I expected we would be killed, but before midnight we
got to the station and changed our clothes and paid off the guides and
took a train back. Dad said to me, as we got on the cars: "Now, Hennery,
I have done this glazier stunt, just to show you that a brave man,
whatever his age, is equal to anything they can propose in Europe,
but by ginger, this settles it, and now I want to go where things come
easier. I am now going to Turkey and see how the Turks worry along. Are
you with me?" "You bet your life," says I.

Yours truly,

Hennery.

CHAPTER XV.

Dad Plays He Is an Anarchist--They Give Alms to the Beggars
and the Bad Boy Ducks a Gondolier and His Dad in the Grand
Canal.

Venice, Italy.--My Dear Old Chumireno: Dad couldn't get out of
Switzerland quick enough after he got thawed out the day after we
climbed the glaziers. We found that almost all the tourists in Geneva
were there becau