The rest laughed; and “church” was over for the morning. The boys now munched their raisins, and cut their last two days’ mileage on their staffs. From the camp on Moosilauke to Lost River was four miles, through the river one, back to the store for the packs, two more, to North Woodstock five, and up to the camp by the Flume House six. That made eighteen miles, and Art and Peanut added another mile on their staffs for their walking during the pursuit of the burglars. The mileage for the next day, according to Art’s pedometer, showed nine miles from camp to the Pool and then to the top of Lafayette, and five miles down the mountain and to the base camp. Then there were two more miles of walking about to Mr. Goodwin’s house, Echo Lake, the Profile, and so on--a total of sixteen.
The boys washed down their frugal meal of raisins and chocolate with all the water from the canteens (“Gee,” said Frank, “it beats all how much you drink on mountains. I suppose it’s due to the rapid evaporation.”) and shortly before one began the descent. It was made in quick time. With no packs to bother them, the Scouts could vault on their poles, and they came down the two miles in seventeen minutes. They were hot and panting at the base, and surprised at their own record.
“Takes you in the front of your legs, and in behind your knees,” said Frank. “I suppose that’s because we don’t develop those holding-in muscles on the level.”
“Well, we’ll develop ’em before we get home, I guess,” said Peanut, rubbing his shins.
They now went to the Goodwins’ house to pay their party call, and say good-bye, and then returned to camp to wait for the motor. They had all their stuff out beside the road when the car, a big, seven passenger touring car, came along, and in they piled. They drew lots for the front seat, and Peanut won. The other five got into the tonneau, and with a shout, the car started up--or rather down the road, for they were on the top of a hill.
The road kept on going down, too, through the woods. The driver told them that this was Three Mile Hill, and nobody disputed him. It was certainly three miles. All the cars they met coming up were on the lowest speed, and chugging hard. At the bottom, they came into the little village of Franconia, and behind them they could see the mountains they had been climbing, piled up against the sky.