The cook tossed his flapjacks skillfully. As the
only woman in the party, I sometimes found an air of festivity about my
breakfast-table. Whereas the others ate from a tarpaulin laid on the
ground, I was favored with a small box for a table and a smaller one for
a seat. On the table-box was set my graniteware plate, knife, fork, and
spoon, a paper napkin, the Prince Albert and the St. Charles. Lest this
sound strange to the uninitiated, the St. Charles was the condensed milk
and the Prince Albert was an old tin can which had once contained
tobacco but which now contained the sugar. Thus, in our camp-etiquette,
one never asked for the sugar, but always for the Prince Albert; not for
the milk, but always for the St. Charles, sometimes corrupted to the
Charlie.
I was late that morning. The men had gone about the business of
preparing the boats for the day. The packers and guides were out after
the horses. The cook, hot and weary, was packing up for the daily
exodus. He turned and surveyed that ghost-forest with a scowl.
"Another camping-place like this, and I'll be braying like a blooming
burro.
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