For a moment he looked fierce, then returned to the matter in hand.
“Something’s got to be done,” he said; “we’ve got to swamp that dripping somehow.”
“What about some treacle?” I hazarded. “We drew some this afternoon.”
And within a minute the bulk of our pudding was further increased by an entire tin of treacle, and whatever its taste after that, it was certainly not of dripping.
“That’s about enough, isn’t it?” I said.
“Well, you know,” said Archie thoughtfully, “I don’t really think it would be harmed by some salmon and shrimp. After all, it would help to counterbalance the dripping.”
But already I had begun to wrap the handkerchief round the brown sticky ball. When it was firmly incased and knotted, we lowered it into a small saucepan, put it on the oven, and waited for the wanderers’ return.
They came back as usual with a great clatter of feet, expressing their hunger in the most forcible terms.
“Hellish hungry,” shouted Evans, “and the dinner’s bound to be awful if Waugh’s cooked it.”
“You wait,” I said, and plumped the stew down before him. This dish, probably because it had cooked itself, was quite eatable; and there was so much of it that in the earlier days it would have formed a meal of generous proportions. And by the time we had finished it, none of us felt in the mood for any more solid fare. Something delicate and appetising would have been delightful, a pêche melba perhaps, but suet ... no. And of course this rather militated against the success of the chocolate soufflé.