Then we drew our chairs round the fire, and heating the coffee which was left over from breakfast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of two cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided for the occasion from the canteen.
Yes, people of England, living at home in luxury, by the protection of a thin line of khaki; when you become anxious at the prospect of one meatless day per week, try living for a fortnight on slops, and then appreciate the glories of a tin of tripe and onions.
Still, one can live on slops, and improve a meal by a vivid imagination. In fact, imagination is a distinct advantage when sitting down hungrily to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes for dinner.
When the door used to open and Cotton appeared with this unsavoury repast, which was always the same each day, I would say to him in the most indifferent tone I could assume:
"Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day?"
"Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be anything; it looks like hot water."
"Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. How dull you are! There must have been a battle in the North Sea!"
"How do you know that, sir?"
"It's the way the Germans have. This soup is hot sea-water; it is to celebrate a victory."
The next day there would be a slight difference in the soup, and again Cotton would gravely shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery.