Jack heard some one coming, snatched up a magazine and his pipe and
promptly retired to his pet crevice in the rocks. Usually he locked
the door before he went, but the climber sounded close--just over the
peak of the last little knob, in fact. He pulled the door shut and
ran, muttering something about darned tourists. Drive a man crazy,
they would, if he were fool enough to stay and listen to their fool
talk.

He crawled well back into the niche, settled himself comfortably and
lighted his pipe. They never came over his way--and the wind blew from
the station. He did not believe they would smell the smoke.

Darn it all, he had the wrong magazine! He half rose, meaning to
scurry back and get the one he wanted; but it was too late now. He
heard the pebbles knocked loose where the faint trail dipped down over
the knob directly behind the station. So he settled back with his pipe
for solace, and scowled down at the world, and waited for the darn
tourists to go.

But this particular darn tourist had two reasons for lingering up
there. Her first and greatest reason was a sheer delight in the
panorama spread below and all around her, and the desire to saturate
her soul with the beauty of it, her lungs with the keen elixir of the
wind, heady with the eight thousand feet of altitude. Her second
reason was a perverse desire to show Kate that she was not to be
bossed around like a kid, and dictated to and advised and lectured
whenever she wanted to do something which Kate did not want to do.
Why, for instance, should she miss the pleasure of climbing to the
very top of the peak just because Kate began to puff before they were
half way up, and wanted to turn back?