and wakes at last, harassed, irritable, unrefreshed.  He cannot manage to account for these things.  Day after day he feels as if he had spent his nights in a sleeping-car.  It actually takes him weeks to find out that it is those persecuting torrents that have been making all the mischief.  It is time for him to get out of Switzerland, then, for as soon as he has discovered the cause, the misery is magnified several fold.  The roar of the torrent is maddening, then, for his imagination is assisting; the physical pain it inflicts is exquisite.  When he finds he is approaching one of those streams, his dread is so lively that he is disposed to fly the track and avoid the implacable foe.

Eight or nine months after the distress of the torrents had departed from me, the roar and thunder of the streets of Paris brought it all back again.  I moved to the sixth story of the hotel to hunt for peace.  About midnight the noises dulled away, and I was sinking to sleep, when I heard a new and curious sound; I listened:  evidently some joyous lunatic was softly dancing a “double shuffle” in the room over my head.  I had to wait for him to get through, of course.  Five long, long minutes he smoothly shuffled away—­a pause followed, then something fell with a thump on the floor.  I said to myself “There—­he is pulling off his boots —­thank heavens he is done.”  Another slight pause—­he went to shuffling again!  I said to myself, “Is he trying to see what he can do with only one boot on?” Presently came another pause and another thump on the floor.  I said “Good, he has pulled off his other boot—­now he is done.”  But he wasn’t.  The next moment he was shuffling again.  I said, “Confound him, he is at it in his slippers!” After a little came that same old pause, and right after it that thump on the floor once more.  I said, “Hang him, he had on two pair of boots!” For an hour that magician went on shuffling and pulling off boots till he had shed as many as twenty-five pair, and I was hovering on the verge of lunacy.  I got my gun and stole up there.  The fellow was in the midst of an acre of sprawling boots, and he had a boot in his hand, shuffling it—­no, I mean polishing it.  The mystery was explained.  He hadn’t been dancing.  He was the “Boots” of the hotel, and was attending to business.

CHAPTER XLIV [I Scale Mont Blanc—­by Telescope]

After breakfast, that next morning in Chamonix, we went out in the yard and watched the gangs of excursioning tourists arriving and departing with their mules and guides and porters; then we took a look through the telescope at the snowy hump of Mont Blanc.  It was brilliant with sunshine, and the vast smooth bulge seemed hardly five hundred yards away.  With the naked eye we could dimly make out the house at the Pierre Pointue, which is located by the side of the great glacier, and is more than three thousand feet above the level of the valley; but with the telescope