“Hooray! here are some anchovies!”
“Say! Six cans of oysters!” cried Mr Hunloke himself. “I didn’t know we had these left, Tommy. I’ll shew you fellows how to make clam chowder. I’ve got to show you.”
“Who says tinned pineapples?”
“Fids I gloat! Sardines à l’tomate. All we want now is the toast—that’s easy!”
“You’ve still a case of Pommery-and-Greno left, Tommy, my man. Trot it out!”
“Yes, and what about that Bass’s ale you and Hunloke keep all to your own cheek?”
“Oh, Miss Saurin, I’ve found some crystallised fruit! And hurrah! here’s a big bottle of eau-de-cologne!”
Every one howled with delight at this artless testimony from Mrs Skeffington-Smythe that in her at least the legitimate business of foraging for commissariat had become merged in the wild spirit of the filibuster. Some one began to softly sing,—
“Loot! Loot! Loot!”
At last, after selecting about two waggon-loads of articles, including champagne and claret for “cup,” a large bottle of eau-de-cologne, a box of toilette soap, and several strings of blue beads, we stood and gazed with the eyes of conquerors upon the wondrous heaps. The question then arose as to who was to carry these things to the theatre of war. There was great argument about this. A peculiarity about African men is that they have a great objection to carrying anything. They would far rather argue about it for two hours and then spend another two looking for a boy. Eventually three wild men engaged to find boys for the task.