"Waste 'em with scurvy staring us in the face? Should think not. Mix 'em with cold potaters in a salad."
"No. Make slumgullion," commanded O'Flynn.
"What's that?" quoth the Colonel.
"Be the Siven! I only wonder I didn't think of it befure. Arre ye listening, Kentucky? Ye take lots o' wathur, an' if ye want it rich, ye take the wathur ye've boiled pitaties or cabbage in—a vegetable stock, ye mind—and ye add a little flour, salt, and pepper, an' a tomater if ye're in New York or 'Frisco, and ye boil all that together with a few fish-bones or bacon-rin's to make it rale tasty."
"Yes—well?"
"Well, an' that's slumgullion."
"Don't sound heady enough for a 'Blow-Out,'" said the Colonel. "We'll sober up on slumgullion to-morrow."
"Anyhow, it's mate I'm wishin' fur," sighed O'Flynn, subsiding among the tin-ware. "What's the good o' the little divvle and his thramps, if he can't bring home a burrud, or so much as the scut iv a rabbit furr the soup?"
"Well, he's contributed a bottle of California apricots, and we'll have boiled rice."
"An' punch, glory be!"