Presently Madame came in, with Lewis standing rather sheepishly behind. She delivered a tornado of very fluent French: “eau-de-vie,” “eau-de-vie,” was all I could disentangle.
“Eau-de-vie?” I asked her. “Pourquoi eau-de-vie?”
“Brandy,” explained Dixon.
“I know that,” said I (who did not know that eau-de-vie was brandy?)
“Brandy,” said Dixon, “to cook the hare with. That’s all she wants. Oui, oui, Madame. Eau-de-vie. Tout de suite. The doctor’s got brandy. Send Lewis along to the doctor to ask him to dinner, and borrow a little brandy.”
So Lewis was despatched, and returned with a little brandy, but the doctor could not come.
“Never mind,” we said.
Meanwhile some tea was on the table, and bully and bread and butter; there was no sugar, however. Richards smiled and said the rats had eaten it all in 71 North, but Davies was buying some. Whenever anything was missing, these rats had eaten it, just as they were responsible for men’s equipment and packs getting torn, and their emergency rations lost. In many cases the excuse was quite a just one; but when it came to rats running off with canteen lids, our sympathy for the rat-ridden Tommy was not always very strong.
To-day, a new reason was found for the loss of three teaspoons.
“Lost in the scuffle, sir, the night of the raid,” was the answer given to the demand for an explanation.