“Thank you, sir,” said George, bending down to tie up his shoelace.
“Not at all,” said the elderly gentleman as he headed off down the path toward the masters’ lodgings.
George ran across the Fellows’ lawn and through the archway into a magnificent Elizabethan courtyard. When he reached the second corridor he stopped to check the names on the board: A. C. Benson, Senior Tutor, third floor. He bolted up the steps, and when he reached the third floor he stopped outside Mr. Benson’s room to catch his breath. He knocked gently on the door.
“Come,” responded a voice. George opened the door and entered the senior tutor’s domain. A rotund, ruddy-faced man with a bushy mustache looked up at him. He was wearing a light checked suit and a yellow-spotted bow tie under his gown, and seated behind a large desk covered in leather-bound books and students’ essays. “And how may I help you?” he inquired, tugging at the lapels of his gown.
“My name is George Mallory, sir. I have an appointment to see you.”
“Had an appointment would be more accurate, Mallory. You were expected at three o’clock, and as I gave express orders that no candidate should be allowed to enter the college after that hour, I am bound to inquire how you managed to get in.”
“I climbed over the wall, sir.”
“You did what?” asked Mr. Benson, rising slowly from behind his desk, a look of incredulity on his face. “Follow me, Mallory.”
George didn’t speak as Mr. Benson led him back down the steps, across the courtyard and into the lodge. The porter leaped up the moment he saw the senior tutor.
“Harry,” said Mr. Benson, “did you allow this candidate to enter the college after three o’clock?”
“No, sir, I most certainly did not,” said the porter, staring at George in disbelief.
Mr. Benson turned to face George. “Show me exactly how you got into the college, Mallory,” he demanded.
George led the two men back to the Fellows’ garden, and pointed to his footprints in the flower bed. The senior tutor still didn’t look convinced. The porter offered no opinion.
“If, as you claim, Mallory, you climbed in, then you can surely climb back out.” Mr. Benson took a pace back, and folded his arms.
George walked slowly up and down the path, studying the wall carefully before he settled on the route he would take. The senior tutor and the college porter watched in astonishment as the young man climbed deftly back up the wall, not pausing until he had placed one leg over the top of the building and sat astride the roof.
“Can I come back down, sir?” George asked plaintively.
“You most certainly can, young man,” said Mr. Benson without hesitation. “It’s clear to me that nothing is going to stop you from entering this college.”
CHAPTER SIX
SATURDAY, JULY 1ST, 1905
WHEN GEORGE TOLD his father he had no intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge, it was the truth. Indeed, the Reverend Mallory had already received a letter from Mr. Irving with a detailed itinerary for their visit to the Alps, which did not include stopping off in Paris. But that was before George had saved Mr. Irving’s life, been arrested for disturbing the peace, and spent a night in jail.
George’s mother was never able to hide her anxiety whenever her son went off on one of his climbing trips, but she always slipped a five-pound note into his jacket pocket, with a whispered plea not to tell his father.
George joined Guy and Mr. Irving at Southampton, where they boarded the ferry for Le Havre. When they disembarked at the French port four hours later, a train was waiting to transport them to Martigny. During the long journey, George spent most of his time staring out of the window.
He was reminded of Mr. Irving’s passion for punctuality when they stepped off the train to find a horse-drawn charabanc awaiting them. With a crack of the coachman’s whip, the little party set off at a brisk pace up into the mountains, allowing George to study even more closely some of the great challenges that lay ahead of him.
It was dark by the time the three of them had booked into the Hôtel Lion d’Or in Bourg St. Pierre, at the foot of the Alps. Over dinner Mr. Irving spread a map across the table and went over his plans for the next fortnight, indicating the mountains they would attempt to climb: the Great St. Bernard (8,101 feet), Mont Vélan (12,353 feet), and the Grand Combin (14,153 feet). If they succeeded in conquering all three, they would move on to Monte Rosa (15,217 feet).
George studied the map intently, already impatient for the sun to rise the next morning. Guy remained silent. Although it was well known that Mr. Irving selected only the most promising climbers among his pupils to accompany him on his annual visit to the Alps, Guy was already having second thoughts about whether he should have signed up.
George, on the other hand, had no such misgivings. But even Mr. Irving was taken by surprise the following day when they reached the top of the Great St. Bernard Pass in record time. Over dinner that evening George asked him if he could take over as climbing leader when they tackled Mont Vélan.
For some time Mr. Irving had realized that George was the mos
t accomplished schoolboy mountaineer he had ever come across, and was more naturally gifted than his seasoned teacher. However, it was the first time a pupil had asked to lead him—and on only the second day of their expedition.
“I will allow you to lead us to the lower slopes of Mont Vélan,” conceded Mr. Irving. “But once we’ve reached 5,000 feet, I’ll take over.”
Mr. Irving never took over, because the next day George led the little party with all the assurance and skill of a seasoned alpinist, even introducing Mr. Irving to new routes he’d never considered in the past. And when, two days later, they climbed the Grand Combin in a shorter time than Mr. Irving had achieved before, the master became the pupil.