“Bill!” Tish called.  “I’ve lost my revolver!”

“I took it, Miss Carberry.  But I’ve been lying in a puddle, and it won’t go off.”

All hope seemed gone.  The frail walls of our tent were no protection whatever, and as we all knew, even a tree was no refuge from a bear, which, as we had seen in the Zoological Garden at home, can climb like a cat, only swifter.  Besides, none of us could climb a tree.

It was at that moment that Tish had one of those inspirations that make her so dependable in emergencies.  Feeling round in the tent for a possible weapon, she touched a large ham, from which we had broiled a few slices at supper.  In her shadowy form there was both purpose and high courage.  With a single sweeping gesture she flung the ham at the bear so accurately that we heard the thud with which it struck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bill called from a safe distance.  Even then we realized that his restraint of speech was a pose, pure and simple.  “If you make him angry he’ll tear up the whole place.”

But Tish did not deign to answer.  The rain had ceased, and suddenly the moon came out and illuminated the whole scene.  We saw the bear sniffing at the ham, which lay on the ground.  Then he picked it up in his jaws and stood looking about.

Tish said later that the moment his teeth were buried in the ham she felt safe.  I can still see the majestic movement with which she walked out of the tent and waved her arms.

“Now, scat with you!” she said firmly.  “Scat!”

He “scatted.”  Snarling through his nose, for fear of dropping the ham, he turned and fled up the mountainside.  In the open space Tish stood the conqueror.  She yawned and glanced about.

“Going to be a nice night, after all,” she said.  “Now, Bill, bring me that revolver, and if I catch you meddling with it again I’ll put that pair of fur rugs you are so proud of in the fire.”

Bill, who was ignorant of the ham, emerged sheepishly into the open.  “Where the—­where the dickens did you hit him, Miss Tish?” he asked.

“In the stomach,” Tish replied tartly, and taking her revolver went back to the tent.

All the next day Tish was quiet.  She rode ahead, hardly noticing the scenery, with her head dropped on her chest.  At luncheon she took a sardine sandwich and withdrew to a tree, underneath which she sat, a lonely and brooding figure.

When luncheon was over and Aggie and I were washing the dishes and hanging out the dish towels to dry on a bush, Tish approached Bill, who was pouring water on the fire to extinguish it.

“Bill,” she stated, “you came to us under false pretenses.  You swear, for one thing.”

“Only under excitement, Miss Tish,” he said.  “And as far as that goes, Miss Aggie herself said—­”

“Also,” Tish went on hastily, “you said you could cook.  You cannot cook.”

“Now, look here, Miss Tish,” he said in a pleading tone, “I can cook.  I didn’t claim to know the whole cookbook.  I can make coffee and fry bacon.  How’d I know you ladies wanted pastry?  As for them canned salmon croquettes with white sauce, I reckon to make them with a little showing, and—­”