"Aggie, you make an omelet in a hurry, and, Lizzie, you will have to get the horses."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," I said, sitting up on the ground. "We've got a man here for that. Besides, I have to set the table."
"Very well," Tish replied, "we can stay here, I dare say. Bill's busy at something I've set him to doing."
"Whose fault is it," I demanded, "that we are here in 'Greenland's Icy Mountains'? Not mine. I'd never heard of the dratted place. And those horses are five miles away by now, most likely."
"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."