“Banquet!” said Lennox, with a sigh.
“Yes. Oh, how tired I am of that mealie pap! It puts me in mind of Brahma fowls, and that maddens me.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to keep some of the great, feather-breeched, lumbering things to send to poultry shows. Some one told me that Indian corn was a fine thing for them—made their plumage bright and gave them bone; so I ordered a lot.”
“And did it answer the purpose?”
“Answer the purpose?” cried Dickenson indignantly. “Why, the beggars picked it up grain by grain and put it down again. Pampered Sybarites! Then the cock cocked his eye up at me and said, ‘Tuck, tuck, tuck! Caro, waro, ware!’ which being interpreted from the Chick-chuck language which is alone spoken by the gallinaceous tribe, means, ‘None of your larks: yellow pebbles for food? Not to-day, thankye!’”
“I say, Bob, what a boy you do keep!” said Lennox.
“The sweet youthfulness of my nature, lad. But, as I was telling you, the beggars wouldn’t touch it, and I had to get our cook to boil it soft. Our mealie pap has just the same smell. That makes me think of being a real boy with my poultry pen: the Brahmas make me think of the young cockerels who did not feather well for show and were condemned to go to pot—that is to say, to the kitchen; and that brings up their legs and wings peppered and salted before broiling for breakfast, finished off with a sprinkle of Worcester sauce, and then—oh, luscious! oh, tender juiciness! Oh! hold me up, old man, or I shall faint. There, sniff! Can’t you smell? Yes, of course; mealie pap in a tin, and—Oh, here’s the colonel eating his. Roby will have to give his report now.”
“Good—morning, gentlemen,” said the colonel. “Just in time for breakfast. Well, what have you found?”
He had hardly asked the question before Captain Roby hurried in, to go up to his side at once and make his report.