“No news, I suppose?” I asked.
“The fellows are still talking about this ‘rest,’ sir. No news about that, I suppose?” said the sergeant-major.
“Only that it’s slightly overdue,” I answered, with a laugh. “What do you think, Jim? Any likelihood of this three weeks’ rest coming off?”
“Oh, yes; I should think so,” said the quartermaster. “Any time next year.”
“Good night, sir,” said Sergeant-Major Brown, with a grin.
“Good night, Sergeant-Major,” came in a chorus as he disappeared into the garden.
“Soup’s ready, sir,” said Lewis. And we sat down to dine.
The extraordinary thing about having Jim Potter in to dinner was that an extra elaborate menu was always provided, and yet old Jim himself always ate less than anyone else; still, he did his share nobly with the whiskey, so that made up for it, I suppose. To-night Edwards planned “sausages and mash” as an entrée; but, whether through superior knowledge or a mere misunderstanding, the sausages arrived seated carefully on the top of the round of beef, like marrons-glacés stuck on an iced cake. As the dish was placed, amid howls of execration, on the table, one of the unsteadier sausages staggered and fell with a splash into the gravy, much to everyone’s delight; Edwards, wiping the gravy spots off his best tunic, seemed the only member of the party who did not greet with approbation this novel dish.
After soup, sausages and beef, and rice-pudding and tinned fruit, came Watson’s special dish—cheese au gratin on toast. This was a glutinous concoction, and a little went a long way. Then followed café au lait made in the teapot, which was the signal for cigarettes to be lit up, and chairs to be moved a little to allow of a comfortable expansion of legs. Owen proposed sitting out in the summer-house, but on going outside reported that it was a little too chilly. So we remained where we were.
Edwards was talking of Amiens: he had been there for the day yesterday, and incidentally discovered that there was a cathedral there.