"Go and get a cup of tea. You'll have a little sense then," said Tish,
not unkindly. "And as for what Bill's doing, he's making revolvers.
Where's your writing ink?"

_I had none!_ I realized it that moment. I had got it out at the first
camp to record in my diary the place, weather, temperature, and my own
pulse rate, which I had been advised to watch, on account of the effect
of altitude on the heart, and had left the bottle sitting on a stone.

When I confessed this to Tish, she was unjustly angry and a trifle
bitter.

"It's what I deserve, most likely, for bringing along two incompetents,"
was her brief remark. "Without ink we are weaponless."

But she is a creature of resource, and a moment later she emerged from
the tent and called to Bill in a cheerful tone.

"No ink, Bill," she said, "but we've got blackberry cordial, and by
mixing it with a little soot we may be able to manage."

Aggie demurred loudly, as there are occasions when only a mouthful of
the cordial enables her to keep doing. But Tish was firm. When I went to
the fire, I found Bill busily carving wooden revolvers, copying Tish's,
which lay before him. He had them done well enough, and could have gone
for the horses as easy as not, but he insisted on trimming them up.
Mine, which I still have, has a buffalo head carved on the handle, and
Aggie's has a wreath of leaves running round the barrel.