Paths of Glory Read Online Free PDF Page A

created by 450 years of ice, snow, wind, rain, and a thawing sun, before he identified a possible route.
    There was a heavy stone archway above the door, the rim of which was only an arm’s length away from a windowsill that would make a perfect foothold. Above that was another smaller window and another sill, from which he would be within touching distance of the sloping tiled roof, which he suspected was duplicated on the other side of the building.
    He dumped his case on the pavement—never carry any unnecessary weight when attempting a climb—placed his right foot in a small hole some eight inches above the pavement, and propelled himself off the ground with his left foot, grabbing at a jutting ledge, which allowed him to pull himself further up toward the stone archway. Several passers-by stopped to watch his progress, and when he finally pulled himself up onto the roof, they rewarded him with a muted round of applause.
    George spent a few moments studying the other side of the wall. As always, the descent was going to be more difficult than the ascent. He swung his left leg over and lowered himself slowly down, clinging on to the gutter with both hands while he searched for a foothold. Once he felt the windowsill with a toe, he removed one hand. That was when his shoe came off, and the grip of the one hand that had been clinging to the guttering slipped. He’d broken the golden rule of maintaining three points of contact. George knew he was going to fall, something he regularly practiced when dismounting the high bar in the college gym, but the bar had never been this high. He let go, and had his first piece of luck that day when he landed in a damp flower bed and rolled over.
    He stood up to find an elderly gentleman staring at him. Did the poor fellow imagine he was confronting a shoeless burglar, George wondered.
    “Can I help you, young man?” he asked.
    “Thank you, sir,” said George. “I have an appointment with Mr. Benson.”
    “You should find Mr. Benson in his study at this time of day.”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know where that is,” said George.
    “Through the Fellows’ archway,” he said, pointing across the lawn. “Second corridor on the left. You’ll see his name printed on the door.”
    “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