An idea immediately suggested itself to me. They would, of
course, return to the hotel in the morning. All I had to do was
to sit down and wait for them; but that would have been dull
sport. My idea was better.

I sought out the hotel's wardrobe--there is nothing the Antlers
will not do for you--and clothed myself in khaki, leggings, and
boots. Then I ordered a car and set out for Manitou, at the foot
of the mountain.

By ten o'clock I was mounted on a donkey, headed for the top,
after having been informed by a guide that "the man and the
beautiful lady" had departed an hour previous.

Having made the ascent twice before, I needed no guide. So I
decided; but I regretted the decision. Three times I lost the
path; once I came perilously near descending on the village
below--well, without hesitation. It was well after midnight when
I passed the Half-way House, and I urged my donkey forward with a
continual rat-a-tat-tat of well-directed kicks in the effort to
make my goal.

You who have experienced the philosophical calm and superb
indifference of the Pike's Peak donkey may imagine the vocabulary
I used on this occasion--I dare not print it. Nor did his speed
increase.

I was, in fact, a quarter of an hour late. I was still several
hundred yards from the summit when the sun's first rays shot
through the thin atmosphere, creating colorful riot among the