“Jack,” said the major, “I couldn’t have believed those fungi would be so delicious; cook has won the cordon bleu. Here, Morris, you are sure these are the same fungi?”
“Certain, sir,” replied the butler. “I took them into the kitchen myself.”
“And were they all used?”
“I think so, sir; part for the ontries in the first course.”
“What!” roared Rolph, who had been horribly guilty over that dish; and he turned white as he clutched the seat of his chair.
“Salmy of poulay ho sham pinions, sir,” said Morris, politely; and he picked a menu from the table and laid it before the captain, who refixed the glass in his eye and glared at the card.
“Do you mean to say that the hashed chicken and the other dish was made up with those con—those toadstools that were—were in that basket?”
“Yes, sir, the basket Major Day brought in, sir,” said Morris.
Sir John chuckled. The major burst into a regular roar.
“Are—are you sure, Morris?” gasped Rolph, turning a sickly yellow.