"Coffee doesn't come up to her mother's," soliloquised George, "but it's pretty good. Hello, Doc!" he shouted, to a man on the opposite side of the parade-ground. "Had your breakfast?"
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Forsyth, "you aren't going to eat again, are you?"
The Ensign turned upon him a look of reproach. "My rations aren't meant for full-grown men," he explained. "If I couldn't get a bite outside occasionally, I'd dry up and blow away. There's a squaw down in the hollow who cooks a pretty good mess, and you can get a bowl of it for a fist of beads. It isn't overly clean, and it's my private opinion it's yellow dog, stewed, or perhaps I should say, curried, but a starving man can't afford to be particular."
"Take me some time," Forsyth suggested carelessly; "I've never eaten dog."
"All right," was the jovial answer, "we'll go. Come on over and meet the Doc."
Robert was duly presented to Doctor Norton, whom the soldier characterised as "the pill roller of the garrison," and soon seized an opportunity to ask him the exact capacity of the human stomach.
"It varies," answered the Doctor, wrinkling his brows in deep thought. "Some people"——
"We must go," George interrupted. "It's time for school."
They parted on the bank of the river, Robert studiously avoiding an opportunity to shake hands. When he entered the house, his pupils were waiting for him.