"Get a fowl," I said.
"There is not one left here," he answered.
"Eggs, then," I suggested, with the humour of desperation.
"No fowl, how eggs?" he answered with pitying superiority.
"Well, we will have what there is," I said faintly.
"There is nothing," he answered cheerfully.
"Miserable man!" I said, "how dared you begin by holding out hopes of lobster salad and maraschino croûstades?"
Was there nothing left of our stores? I rummaged in the box which held them. Everything was wet and slimy; a few bars of chocolate were soaked in Bovril emanating from a broken bottle; a sticky tin held the remains of pekmez, a native jam made with grape juice; two dirty linen bags contained respectively a little tea and rice; a disgusting looking pasty mess in what had once been a cardboard box aroused my curiosity. Could it be—yes, it had once been, protein flour, "eminently suitable for travellers and tourists, forming a delicious and sustaining meal when no other food is procurable." It had been the parting gift of our respective mothers, along with injunctions to air our clothes. I calmly thought the matter out.
"X," I said, "will it be best to eat chocolate with the Bovril thrown in, or to drink Bovril with the chocolate thrown in?"
"Don't talk about it," said X, "cook everything up together, and let us hope individual flavours will be merged beyond recognition."