Thus sporting on our way, crowned with _alova_ and girdled with
_tontoni_ (a gorgeous type of flannel-mouthed snapdragon which kept all
manner of insects at bay), we wound toward the summit, stopping ever and
anon to admire the cliffs of mother-of-pearl, sheer pages of colorful
history thrown up long ago by some primeval illness of mother earth.

Swank was so intoxicated by it all that I made almost the only break
of our island experience.

"You've been drinking," I accused.

"You lie," he answered hotly, "it's these colors! Wow-wow! Osky-wow-wow!
Skinny wow-wow Illinois!"

"Oh, shut up!" I remonstrated, when I saw Tilaana advancing toward me,
fluttering her _taa-taa_ in the same menacing way in which Kippy had
attacked the _wak-wak_.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "I was wrong. I apologize."

We stood in a circle and chinned each other until peace was restored.

The view from the summit was, as authors say, indescribable.
Nevertheless I shall describe it, or rather I shall quote Whinney who
at this moment reached his highest point. We were then about three
thousand feet above sea-level.

I wish I could give his address as it was delivered, in Filbertese,
but I fear that my readers would skip, a form of literary exercise
which I detest.