Bill scarcely seemed to hear. He went on with his work, but when the simple meal was over and the packing half done, he made his answer. He drew a cloth sack from one of the packs, swung it on his shoulder, and stepped over to Lounsbury's side.
"There's a couple of things I want to tell you," he began. He spoke in a quiet voice, so that Virginia could not hear.
Lounsbury looked up with a scowl. "I don't know that I want to hear them."
"I know you don't want to hear 'em, but you are going to hear 'em just the same. I want to tell you that first I'm doing everything any human being can to make you more comfortable. You can't take Morris chairs along on a pack train. You can't take electric stoves, and you can't boss the weather. It's your own fault you didn't provide yourself with proper clothes. And I'm tired of hearing you yelp."
Lounsbury tried to find some crushing remark in reply. He only sputtered.
"I can only stand so much, and then it makes me nervous," the guide went on, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't care what you do when you get back to town. I just don't want you pestering me any more with your complaints. I've stood a lot for Miss Tremont's sake—she probably wouldn't like to see anything happen to you. But just a few more little remarks like you made before lunch, and you're apt to find yourself standing in mud up to your knees in one of these mud holes—wrong end up! And that wouldn't be becoming at all for an American millionaire."
Lounsbury opened his mouth several times. The same number of times he shut it again. "I see," he said at last, clearly.
"Good. And here's some clothes of mine. They're not handsome, and they'll not fit, but they'll keep you dry."
He dumped the larger portion of his own waterproofs on the ground at Lounsbury's feet.