Paths of Glory by Jeffrey Archer

hotel and onto the driveway. He immediately began to turn the wheel of the ancient klaxon which produced a deafening screeching sound that would alert Somervell and Herford to the danger.

    When the sun finally disappeared behind the highest peak, George placed the torch firmly in the snow, facing down the mountain. He switched it on and a beam of light flickered, but how long would it last?
    “Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda with me? And he sang as he…”
    There was nothing in the safety manual about what to do about an Australian singing out of tune, thought George as he rested his head in the snow and began to drift off to sleep. Not a bad way to die.
    “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me … ”

    When George woke he couldn’t be sure where he was, how he’d got there, or how long he’d been there. Then he saw a nurse. He slept.
    When he woke again, Somervell was standing by the side of his bed. He gave George a warm smile. “Welcome back,” he said.
    “How long have I been away?”
    “Two or three days, give or take. But the doctors are confident they’ll have you back on your feet within a week.”
    “And Finch?”
    “He’s got one leg in plaster, but he’s eating a hearty breakfast and still singing “Waltzing Matilda” to any nurse who cares to listen.”
    “What about Young?” George asked, fearing the worst.
    “He’s still unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a broken arm. The medical chaps are doing everything they can to patch him up, and if they do manage to save his life, he’ll have you to thank.”
    “Me?” said George.
    “If it hadn’t been for your torch, we would never have found you.”
    “It wasn’t my torch,” said George. “It was Finch’s.”
    George slept.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    T UESDAY , J ULY 9 TH , 1907
    “O NCE YOU’VE STARED death in the face, nothing is ever the same again,” said Young. “It places you apart from other men.”
    George poured his guest a cup of tea.
    “I wanted to see you, Mallory, to make sure it wasn’t that dreadful experience that has caused you to stop climbing.”
    “Of course it wasn’t,” said George. “There’s a far better reason. My tutor has warned me that I won’t be considered for a doctorate unless I get a first.”
    “And what are your chances of that, old fellow?”
    “It seems I’m a borderline case. I can’t allow myself not to succeed simply because I didn’t work hard enough.”
    “Understandable,” said Young. “But all work and no play…”
    “I’d rather be a dull success than a bright failure,” retorted George.
    “But once your exams are over, Mallory, will you consider joining me in the Alps next summer?”
    “I certainly will,” said George, smiling. “If there’s one thing I fear even more than failing to get a first, it’s the thought of Finch standing on the peaks of higher and higher mountains singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’.”
    “He’s just had his degree results,” said Young.
    “And…?”

    Guy was astonished by the amount of work George put in as his finals approached. He didn’t take even a day off during the spring vacation to visit Pen-y-Pass or Cornwall, let alone the Alps. His only companions were kings, dictators, and potentates, and his only excursions were to battlefields in far-off lands as he studied night and day right up until the morning of the exams.
    After five days of continual writing, and eleven different papers, George still couldn’t be sure how well he’d done. Only the very clever and the very stupid ever are. Once he’d handed in his final paper, he emerged from the examination room and stepped out into the sunlight to find Guy sitting on the steps of Schools waiting to greet him, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other. George sat down beside him and smiled.
    “Don’t ask,” he said, as Guy began to remove the wire from around the cork.
    For the next ten days a period of limbo