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The route from Guillestre into Italy lies up the valley of the Guil, through one of the wildest and deepest gorges, or rather chasms, to be found in Europe. Brockedon says it is "one of the finest in the Alps." M. Bost compares it to the Moutier-Grand-Val, in the canton of Berne, but says it is much wilder.
You let me pick the team now, and give me to-night and to-morrow morning to drill them, and I'll bet Kiowa will never burn any property celebrating." Bost was there with his head down between his knees and he said he didn't care Rearick or Sillcocks or his satanic majesty could pick the team.
We caught up and Bost hopped out, still mad. "Where in Billy-be-blamed are you going, you human trolley car?" he spluttered, sprinting along beside Skjarsen. "What do you mean by breaking up a game in the middle and vamoosing with the ball? Do you think we're going to win this game on mileage? Turn around, you chump, and climb into this car." Ole looked around him sadly.
Do you have to use a lariat when you put his harness on?" Fancy Bost having to take all that conversation, with no adequate reply to make. When I got there he was blue in the face. It didn't take him half a second to decide what to do.
We crowded around him as if he had been a T. R. capture straight from Africa. Everybody helped him register third prep, with business-college extras. Then we took him out, harnessed him in football armor, and set to work to teach him the game. Bost went right to work on Ole in a businesslike manner. He tossed him the football and said: "Catch it."
When Bost came to Siwash he succeeded a line of coaches who had been telling the fellows to get down low and hit the line hard, and had been showing them how to do it very patiently. Nice fellows, those coaches. Perfect gentlemen. Make you proud to associate with them.
What the old path was, and what were the discomforts of travelling through this district in Neff's time, may be appreciated on a perusal of the narrative of the young pastor Bost, who in 1840 determined to make a sort of pilgrimage to the scenes of his friend's labours some seventeen years before. M. Bost, however, rather exaggerates the difficulties and discomforts of the valleys than otherwise.
"You cotton-headed Scandinavian cattleship ballast, catch that ball in your arms when I throw it to you, and don't let go of it!" shrieked Bost, shooting it at him again. "Oll right," said Ole patiently. He cornered the ball after a short struggle and stood hugging it faithfully. "Toss it back, toss it back!" howled Bost, jumping up and down.
Ned changed his clothes and had some breakfast, and then as he sat by the fire the feeling of warmth and comfort after his long and cold night overpowered him, and he went fast to sleep. Ned slept for some hours. When he woke he heard the landlord talking in loud tones in the passage outside. "I tell you, wife it is a burning shame. Mynheer Von Bost has never done a soul harm in his life.
And now, sir, I think you had best be riding at once. I presume that there are byroads by which you can avoid passing through any towns on your way to Sluys. It is better not to delay a minute, for at any moment some party or other of soldiers may come along." The men had by this time brought out the horse. Von Bost mounted, and his wife was assisted on to the pillion behind him.
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