Gus Lafee finished wiping his hands and sullenly threw the towel upon
the rocks. His attitude was one of deep dejection. The light seemed gone
out of the day and the glory from the golden sun. Even the keen mountain
air was devoid of relish, and the early morning no longer yielded its
customary zest.

"Just our luck!" Gus repeated, this time avowedly for the edification of
another young fellow who was busily engaged in sousing his head in the
water of the lake.

"What are you grumbling about, anyway?" Hazard Van Dorn lifted a
soap-rimmed face questioningly. His eyes were shut. "What's our luck?"

"Look there!" Gus threw a moody glance skyward. "Some duffer's got ahead
of us. We've been scooped, that's all!"

Hazard opened his eyes, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a white flag
waving arrogantly on the edge of a wall of rock nearly a mile above his
head. Then his eyes closed with a snap, and his face wrinkled
spasmodically. Gus threw him the towel, and uncommiseratingly watched
him wipe out the offending soap. He felt too blue himself to take stock
in trivialities.

Hazard groaned.

"Does it hurt--much?" Gus queried, coldly, without interest, as if it
were no more than his duty to ask after the welfare of his comrade.

"I guess it does," responded the suffering one.