“Also,” said Tish, cutting in sternly, “you took away my revolver, and left us helpless last night, and in peril of wild beasts.”

“Tourists ain’t allowed to carry guns.”

He attempted to look injured, but Tish ignored him.

“Therefore,” she said, “if I am not to send you back—­which I have been considering all day, as I’ve put up a tent myself before this, and you are only an extra mouth to feed, which, as we are one ham short, is inconvenient—­you will have to justify my keeping you.”

“If you will just show me once about them gems, Miss Tish—­” he began.

But Tish cut him off.  “No,” she said firmly, “you are too casual about cooking.  And you are no dish-washer.  Setting a plate in a river and letting the current wash it may satisfy cow-punchers.  It doesn’t go with me.  The point is this:  You know all about the holdup that is going to take place.  Don’t lie.  I know you know.  Now, you take us there and tell us all you know about it.”

He scratched his head reflectively.  “I’ll tell you,” he said.  “I’m a slow thinker.  Give me about twenty minutes on it, will you?  It’s a sort of secret, and there’s different ways of looking at it.”

Tish took out her watch.  “Twenty minutes,” she said.  “Start thinking now.”

He wandered off and rolled a cigarette.  Later on, as I have said, he showed Tish how to do it—­not, of course, that she meant to smoke, but Tish is fond of learning how to do things.  She got so she could roll them with one hand, and she does it now in the winter evenings, instead of rolling paper spills as formerly.  When Charlie Sands comes, she always has a supply ready for him, although occasionally somewhat dry from waiting for a few weeks.

At the end of twenty minutes Tish snapped her watch shut.

“Time!” she called, and Bill came back.

“Well, I’ll do it,” he said.  “I don’t know as they’ll put you in the picture, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Picture nothing!” Tish snapped.  “You take us there and hide us.  That’s the point.  There must be caves round to put us in, although I don’t insist on a cave.  They’re damp usually.”

Well, he looked puzzled, but he agreed.  I caught Aggie’s eye, and we exchanged glances.  There was trouble coming, and we knew it.  Our long experience with Tish had taught us not to ask questions.  “Ours but to do and die,” as Aggie later said.  But I confess to a feeling of uneasiness during the remainder of that day.

We changed our course that afternoon, turning off at Saint Mary’s and spending the night near the Swiss Chalet at Going-to-the-Sun.  Aggie and I pleaded to spend the night in the chalet, but Tish was adamant.

“When I am out camping, I camp,” she said.  “I can have a bed at home, but I cannot sleep under the stars, on a bed of pine needles, and be lured to rest by the murmur of a mountain stream.”

Well, we gave it up and went with her.  I must say that the trip had improved us already.  Except when terrified or kicked by a horse, Aggie was not sneezing at all, and I could now climb into the saddle unassisted.  My waistbands were much looser, too, and during a short rest that afternoon I put a dart in my riding-breeches, during the absence of Bill after the pack-horse, which had strayed.