This was the guide's simple story. I asked him what became of the vest
and the buttons, and the bar of iron. The old man wore the vest until he
wore it out; and then he handed it over to the boys, and they wore it
in turn till they wore it out. The buttons were cut off, and kept as
curiosities. They were about the cabin, and the children had them to
play with. The guide distinctly remembers playing with them; one of them
he kept for a long time, and he didn't know but he could find it now,
but he guessed it had disappeared. I regretted that he had not treasured
this slender verification of an interesting romance, but he said in
those days he never paid much attention to such things. Lately he has
turned the subject over, and is sorry that his father wore out the vest
and did not bring away the chair. It is his steady purpose to find the
cave some time when he has leisure, and capture the chair, if it has not
tumbled to pieces. But about the crowbar? Oh I that is all right. The
guide has the bar at his house in Keene Valley, and has always used it.

I am happy to be able to confirm this story by saying that next
day I saw the crowbar, and had it in my hand. It is short and thick, and
the most interesting kind of crowbar. This evidence is enough for me. I
intend in the course of this vacation to search for the cave; and, if
I find it, my readers shall know the truth about it, if it destroys the
only bit of romance connected with these mountains.

VIII. WHAT SOME PEOPLE CALL PLEASURE

My readers were promised an account of Spaniard's Cave on Nipple-Top
Mountain in the Adirondacks, if such a cave exists, and could be found.
There is none but negative evidence that this is a mere cave of the
imagination, the void fancy of a vacant hour; but it is the duty of the
historian to present the negative testimony of a fruitless expedition in
search of it, made last summer. I beg leave to offer this in the simple
language befitting all sincere exploits of a geographical character.

The summit of Nipple-Top Mountain has been trodden by few white men of
good character: it is in the heart of a hirsute wilderness; it is itself
a rough and unsocial pile of granite nearly five thousand feet high,
bristling with a stunted and unpleasant growth of firs and balsams, and
there is no earthly reason why a person should go there. Therefore we
went. In the party of three there was, of course, a chaplain. The guide
was Old Mountain Phelps,