While one of the young officers of the 30th exclaimed to his cousin, "Confound it, Ned! you haven't brought us here to poison us, have you?"
This explosion was followed by a simultaneous shout for Tom by his six angry masters.
The top-man put his head in at the slit.
"What the deuce have you been doing to this soup?" roared the indignant chorus.
"Soup, your honors? Nothing."
"Nothing! Don't tell me, you ruffian!" exclaimed Allison, the oldest of the midshipmen. "It's poison! What have you been doing to it?"
"Well, your honor, the only way I can account for it is that a while ago I took off the lid to see if it was boiling nicely, when a bit of tallow candle I had in my fingers slipped and fell into it. I couldn't get it out, though I scalded my fingers in trying, and it just melted away in no time. I skimmed the fat off the top, your honors, and didn't think it would make no matter."
The shout of laughter which greeted the explanation was loud and general.
"You're a scoundrel, Tom!" Allison said, "and I shall have to ask Mr. Hethcote to disrate you, and get some one here who is not a born idiot. Here, take this horrible mess away! Pour the contents of your plates back into the pot, boys, and put the plates together. You must wash them, Tom, or the tallow will taste in everything we have."
The things were passed out of the tent, and after five minutes the plates were returned, and with them a great tin piled up with Irish stew, the contents of five tins. A cheer rose as the smell of the food greeted their nostrils.