So he had.
The cook scratched his head; he seemed to have nothing to say. He thought about trying to think, perhaps, but gave it best. It was too hot and he was out of practice.
“Here, fill these up, will you?” said Mitchell. “That’s the tea-bag, and that’s the sugar-bag, and that’s the flour-bag.” He had taken them from the front of his shirt.
“Don’t be frightened to stretch ’em a little, old man. I’ve got two mates to feed.”
The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knew what he was doing. Mitchell talked all the time.
“Thank you,” said he—“got a bit of baking-powder?”
“Ye-yes, here you are.”
“Thank you. Find it dull here, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, pretty dull. There’s a bit of cooked beef and some bread and cake there, if you want it!”
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an old pillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. “I s’pose you find it dull round here.”