172 CAMP FIRE REMINISCENCES 
was increased by the reflection, but this was all 
absorbed by the foliage when we turned inland. 
Sometimes my horse would stumble, and as I had 
to carry a rifle in one hand, it became very tire- 
some. Sometimes I would turn the horse into the 
scrub and stop until Joe came up, then it would dash 
away again in an exasperating manner, often stum- 
bling. Eventually I came upon a lane where I 
managed to draw up until the Mexican arrived. 
In time the ride to the Eagle’s Nest came to an 
end and the guide, having the key, let us in and 
we spent a comfortable night. About four o’clock 
we turned out, and having dressed by a small tepid 
stream near by, felt ready for breakfast. The bag 
was opened and what a surprise awaited us! The 
thoughtful hotel people, who had no doubt been 
arranging goat hunter’s lunches for years, had put 
up peach pie, apricot pie, soft-boiled eggs, ripe 
plums, and layer cake; they had rolled the different 
delicacies up first in silk paper and then in brown, 
putting the whole into a sack. This sack had been 
tied to the saddle of a horse which galloped with 
it for hours over a rough road. To allow the fruit 
stones and egg shells to settle down, it had been 
left to rest for six hours on a hot night—when the 
mixture was served for breakfast. For many years 
T had been a pupil of the original Sherlock Holmes, 
otherwise I could not have told so much about the 
component parts of this dish. Joe looked daggers, 
and swore, as only a Mexican can—he spoke lightly 
of the hotel people and their ancestors, prayed a - ~ 
good deal, and then said we must go back. I wres- 
