vestibule of the Pass, and he was in an amphitheatre of lofty peaks. The
eastbound began to wind and lift like a leviathan seeking a way through.
It crept along a tilting shelf, rounded a sheer spur, and ran shrieking
over a succession of trestles, while the noise of the exhausts rang a
continuous challenge from shoulder and crag. Then suddenly a mighty summit
built like a pulpit of the gods closed behind, and a company of still
higher mountains encircled the gorge. Everywhere above the wooded slopes
towered castellated heights and spires.

Presently a near cliff came between him and the higher view and, with a
lift and drop of his square shoulders, he settled back in his chair. He
drew his hand across his eyes, the humorous lines deepened and, like one
admitting a weakness, he shook his head. It was always so; the sight of
any mountains, a patch of snow on a far blue ridge, set his pulses
singing; wakened the wanderlust for the big spaces in God's out-of-doors.
And this canyon of the Snoqualmie was old, familiar ground. He had served
his surveyor's apprenticeship on these western slopes of the Cascades. He
had triangulated most of these peaks, named some of them, and he had
carried a transit to these headwaters, following his axman often over a
new trail. Now, far, far down between the columns of hemlock and fir, he
caught glimpses of the State road on the opposite bank of the stream that,
like a lost river, went forever seeking a way out, and finally, for an
instant he saw a cabin set like a toy house at the wooden bridge where the
thoroughfare crossed. Then the eastbound, having made a great loop, found
another hidden gateway and moved up to the levels above Lake Keechelus.
The whistle signalled a mountain station, and Tisdale rose and went out to
the platform; when the trucks jolted to a standstill, he swung himself
down to the ground to enjoy a breath of the fine air.

The next moment he found himself almost upon a wrecked automobile. He saw