"Going to have your things sent here, eh?" replied the man. "Just address Royal Artillery, Hill 406; it will come all right."
"When will this go out?" asked Ralph.
"Tomorrow forenoon," was the reply.
The evening meal was hugely enjoyed by the boys, for they had had a strenuous day. It was the first time in months that they were served roast beef,—the Britisher's dish, and while the hospitals are always provided with the best-cooked food, and many dainties, such as invalids relish, the artillery branch of the service is usually served with the most substantial and regular meals. The infantry always has plenty, but the difficulty is that the poor fellows in the front line can get their food, while a battle is in progress, only at irregular intervals.
Located, as they were, near the top of a hill, far from the enemy, having no fear of unexpected assaults, and only occasionally disturbed by the great shells which sometimes search them out, the artilleryman can dine in comfort on food well cooked in a finely arranged kitchen, usually presided over by a competent chef.
That was why the boys enjoyed the meal, or one of the reasons; the other being, undoubtedly, the normal hunger which seems to come to all boys who are in an active and growing stage.
They had potatoes, turnips and salad, and even fruit, as well as tea, although coffee was also served to those who called for it.
"Well! if they don't have real apple pie!" said Alfred, as the dishes were removed for the final course.
"Tarts! my boy! Tarts!" interjected Alfred's neighbor.
"Well, we call them pies," explained Ralph. "When they have a crust on top they are pies, and the little things without any tops are tarts."