Suddenly, during that night, the sky became black over the distant Cordillera and the rain began. Immediately we slung up the tents. Oh, those tents, what a comfort they were at the end of a weary march! We had no adequate poles and no bushes or pegs to hang them upon, but we got them up somehow and put the cargo round them. Then we crept inside and listened to the rain. The warm beds, the rugs, the candle and tobacco and books. It was homelike. And the dry shirt one could put on within that shelter, with the rain, rain outside! When you have slept out in all weathers you begin to understand the full luxury of a tent like ours, with its furs and warmth and a decent pipe out of the wind. It is a moving home. To be free of the weather, to let it rain if it wants to, to lie and listen to it, these are all thrilling pleasures, pleasures because of the contrast to the wet open camp where, in spite of the covered and sweating head and body, the pitiless rain trickles in pools into your bed. And the spell of reading at night inside the tent, the company of thoughts new and old of wise men, these are pleasures of which only the wanderer knows the true sweetness.
During the next day or two we continued to travel over the same waterless stony pampa; there were pigmy hillocks, many guanaco and a lagoon of wonderful shades of blue, also the wind ahead, and dust blowing back into our eyes. We crossed the River Olin and pushed on for the River Chico. One cold night as we sat round the fire some one suggested we should have an exhibition of our effects when we reached Santa Cruz. Beyond a broken cup or two, a _bombilla_, and a shattered kettle, we could produce little else. It was hinted that Barckhausen's trousers might figure in it, and I offered to contribute my old coat.
Before reaching the River Belgrano we came in sight of a troop of horses being driven across the pampa by a couple of Gauchos. At first sight we thought them a mirage. On inquiry I was told that my friend Señor Waag was in command, news at which I was naturally delighted. I had made Mr. Waag's acquaintance in Buenos Aires, and we had arranged to meet in Patagonia if possible. Mr. Waag was on the Argentine Boundary Commission, and has done more valuable geographical work in the Cordillera than any other man. Being told that he was only a couple of hours behind the troop, I galloped on to meet him, for I heard that his waggon had broken down, and so made sure of coming upon him. After a few hours going, I arrived at the camp of his assistants, where were two Italian engineers, and also some piratical-looking _peones_ in red caps making bread in an oven dug into the ground. But Mr. Waag himself was not there, having gone off the track to camp in a _cañadon_. I was greatly disappointed, for I had looked forward to this meeting.