“Why, you had your rations and your mess,” cried Geoffrey.
“A pound of meat a day for a hungry man who spends, perhaps, twelve hours in the saddle, with a bitter bleak wind to sharpen his appetite, was not much to boast of; and sometimes the ration was bad, or bone. When we had our permanent camp we fared well enough, and had a stew—a big pot into which everything was thrown: game, rations, goat, etc.; and as the pot was always kept going, it had a rich miscellaneous flavour, difficult to describe, but most excellent.”
“Do you mean that it was not made afresh every day?” asked Miss Ferrars, a fair amateur cook.
“Every day something fresh was added, but the original stew was about three months old. Never cleared out, that was the beauty of it.”
“O-oh!” cried Helen, “how could you! how can you?”
“It was most superior, I assure you; our pot-au-feu was noted, I can tell you, Helen.”
“That will do. No more traveller’s tales for me, Rex”—rising—“I’m going to see if Alice is asleep.”
As the door closed on the disgusted matron, Reginald said:
“Helen may turn up her nose at our stew, but if she had been one week in camp, she would have appreciated it just as keenly as the most ravenous among us.”
“Had you a mess-tent?” asked Geoffrey solicitously.