CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
A NIGHT ON SCAFELL PIKE.
Off at last! Hard work to get off, though; as if a fellow of fifteen wasn't old enough to take care of himself.

Mother cut up as much as if I'd asked leave to go to my own funeral--said I was too young, and knew nothing of the world, and all that sort of thing.

But I don't see what knowing the world has to do with a week's tramp in the Lakes; not much of the world there--anyhow, where I mean to go.
I've got it all up in the guide-book, and written out my programme, and given them my address for every day, and promised to keep a diary, and always sleep between blankets, for fear the sheets shouldn't be aired-- and what more can a fellow do?
Well, then mother said I must promise to keep in the valleys, and not attempt to climb any of the mountains.

Oh, ah! lively work that would be.

I might just as well stay at home and walk round Russell Square fifty times a day; and I said so, and repeated off from memory what the guide-book says about the way up Helvellyn.