“It’s the surgeon’s orders.”
“He has them hauled away and emptied, I suppose?”
“No; he has them dried on the commissary floor.”
“Gives them to poor people, I suppose?”
“I don’t know,” answered one; but there was a general laugh among the men in the kitchen.
She made an excuse to go to the commissary-room; and there, sure enough, on the floor, was a large pile of old coffee-grounds. The men employed there were busy stirring and turning it over to hasten the drying process. She asked for something in a careless way, and then said as she was leaving,—
“You have a good lot of coffee, boys. What in the world are you going to do with so much coffee?”
“The surgeon in charge is going to sell it, I guess;” and then they all laughed. She felt sure from their manner that these men knew all the secrets of that commissary department, and it must be her business to get it from them. But I was urging her to be careful; for if false charges were brought against the surgeon in charge of a large hospital, it would injure the diet-kitchen service all along the line. We were in daily correspondence. She had tested the coffee every way she could think of, but could not decide as to how it was adulterated. She had a new white-pine sink put in the kitchen, and poured out some coffee on that. It stained the boards logwood color. She knew now at least one article of adulteration. She looked the men of the commissary well over, and picked out one, an innocent young fellow, that she thought she might surprise into a confession. Waiting her chance, when no one was near, she faced him with the terrible question:—
“Why do you men in the commissary-room put logwood and every other vile stuff in the coffee for our poor sick and wounded men to drink? Have you no conscience? Do you want to kill them?”
The poor boy turned pale, and staggered back as though he would fall, as he stammered,—