He was called in. But he declined, on the plea of inexperience, diffidence in public, lack of curiosity, and I don't know what all. Another man declined on account of a cold in the head thought he ought to avoid exposure. Another could not jump well—never could jump well—did not believe he could jump so far without long and patient practice. Another was afraid it was going to rain, and his umbrella had a hole in it. Everybody had an excuse. The result was what the reader has by this time guessed: the most magnificent idea that was ever conceived had to be abandoned, from sheer lack of a person with enterprise enough to carry it out. Yes, I actually had to give that thing up,—whilst doubtless I should live to see somebody use it and take all the credit from me.
Well, I had to go overland—there was no other way. I marched the Expedition down the steep and tedious mule-path and took up as good a position as I could upon the middle of the Glacier—because Baedeker said the middle part travels the fastest. As a measure of economy, however, I put some of the heavier baggage on the shoreward parts, to go as slow freight.
I waited and waited, but the Glacier did not move. Night was coming on, the darkness began to gather—still we did not budge. It occurred to me then, that there might be a time-table in Baedeker: it would be well to find out the hours of starting. I called for the book—it could not be found. Bradshaw would certainly contain a time-table: but no Bradshaw could be found.
Very well, I must make the best of the situation. So I pitched the tents, picketed the animals, milked the cows, had supper, paregoricked the men, established the watch, and went to bed—with orders to call me as soon as we came in sight of Zermatt.
I awoke about half past ten, next morning, and looked around. We hadn't budged a peg! At first I could not understand it: then it occurred to me that the old thing must be aground. So I cut down some trees and rigged a spar on
