"Ha!" said Bill, red in the face from his exertions over the fire. "There's the water singin' in the mess-tin; it'll soon be dancin'."
The water began to splutter merrily as he spoke, and he emptied the tea on the tin which he lifted from the brazier with his bayonet. From his pack he brought forth a loaf and cut it into good thick slices.
"Now some sardines, and we're as comfy as kings," he muttered. "We'll 'ave a meal fit for a gentleman, any gentleman in the land."
"What sort of meal is fit for a gentleman?" I asked.
"Oh! a real good proper feed," said Bill. "Suthin' that fills the guts."
The meal was fit for a gentleman indeed; in turn we drank the tea from the mess-tin and lifted the sardines from the tin with our fingers; we had lost our forks as well as most of our equipment.
"What are you goin' to do now?" asked Bill, when we had finished.
"I don't know that there's anything to be done in my job," I said. "All the wounded have been taken in from here."
"There's no water to be got," said Bill. "There's a pump in the street, but nobody knows whether it's poisoned or not. The nearest well that's safe to drink from is at Maroc."
"Is there a jar about?" I asked Bill, and he unearthed one from the corner of his jacket. "I'll go to Maroc and bring up a jar of water," I said. "I'll get back by midnight, if I'm not strafed."