"Wot," muttered Bill, "wot's wrong with it?"
"As soup its above reproach, but the name," said Pryor. "It's beastly."
"Wot's wrong with it?"
"Everything," said the artistic youth, "and besides I was fed as a child on mulligatawny, fed on it until I grew up and revolted. To meet it again here in a dug-out. Oh! ye gods!"
"I'll take it," I said, for I had already finished mine.
"Will you?" exclaimed Pryor, employing his spoon with Gargantuan zeal. "It's not quite etiquette."
As he spoke a bullet whistled through the door and struck a tin of condensed milk which hung by a string from the rafter. The bullet went right through and the milk oozed out and fell on the table.
"Waiter," said Goliath in a sharp voice, fixing one eye on the cook, and another on the falling milk.
"Sir," answered Stoner, raising his head from his mess-tin.
"What beastly stuff is this trickling down? You shouldn't allow this you know."