“Soup!” said he.
“Meat—roast mutton!” said I, lifting a second cover.
“Potatoes—by Jove!”
“Nettle-top spinach!!”
“Chocolate pudding!!!” Hill cried.
I peered into the only remaining dish—a small jug.
“Coffee!” I gasped, and collapsed into a chair. Compared with our customary dinner it was a feast for the gods. It came, as we knew, from “Posh Castle,” for under the Spook’s instructions the Commandant had requested that mess to send us food. It was the nearest prisoners’ house and therefore, we thought, it was the natural thing for the Commandant to do. Of course, we had no manner of claim on “Posh Castle,” but as we were putting ourselves to a certain amount of trouble for the sake of the camp, we had considered it right and proper they should do our cooking for us for a day or two. But we had not reckoned on their killing the fatted calf in this way, and our consciences pricked us.
“This,” said Hill in a very contrite voice, “this is the work of old Price——”
“Who believes in the Spook,” I groaned. “I’ve been stuffing him with lies for a year.”
“Oh, what a pair of swine we are,” we said together.