Ten minutes afterward we met a hot, red-faced man plunging down the mountain, making mighty strides, swinging his alpenstock ahead of him, and taking a grip on the ground with its iron point to support these big strides. He stopped, fanned himself with his hat, swabbed the perspiration from his face and neck with a red handkerchief, panted a moment or two, and asked how far to Waeggis. I said three hours. He looked surprised, and said:
“Why, it seems as if I could toss a biscuit into the lake from here, it’s so close by. Is that an inn, there?”
I said it was.
“Well,” said he, “I can’t stand another three hours, I’ve had enough today; I’ll take a bed there.”
I asked:
“Are we nearly to the top?”
“Nearly to the top? Why, bless your soul, you haven’t really started, yet.”