"Yep. But say, that ain't pie, nor yet puddin'."
"Maybe we can turn it into something like it," went on Bob, "if we've got any prunes in this dump——"
"Prunes! By Hezekiah Albatross!" cried the cook, "there ain't a prune nigher'n ten mile!"
"Yes there is!" asserted one of the doughboys. "The supply company in the next trench has a lot of 'em, but they're short of condensed milk. If we could make a trade——"
"Go try it!" cried Bob. "If—well, we'll make some prune slump."
"Who's 'we,' an' what's 'prune slump'?" asked the cook. "Dunno's I ever hearn tell of it."
"By 'we' I mean Jimmy, Roger, Iggy and I can make prune slump," went on Bob. "I suppose you'd call it plum duff in the navy. But you take some prunes, stew 'em, make a sort of batter of crumbled-up bread or crackers, slap in some molasses and condensed milk, and bake it in a pan. We used to have it at Camp Sterling. 'Member, Jimmy?"
"I should say so! Go to it, kiddo!"
"Here are the prunes!" cried a lad, coming back with a big bag full. "They were crazy to trade 'em for condensed milk. Trot out your cans, Cookie."
"All right. By Chesapeake Bay, maybe there'll somethin' come of this after all! Prune slump! I'll try to make it, boys, but I ain't guaranteein' nothin'. 'Twon't be pie, but mebby it'll take on a flavor of puddin'! I'll make it."