"I'm sorry," said Stoner, "you'd better lick it up."
"'Ad 'e," cried Bill. "Wot will we do for tea?" The Cockney held a spare mess-tin under the milk and caught it as it fell. This was considered very unseemly behaviour for a gentleman, and we suggested that he should go and feed in the servants' kitchen.
A stew, made of beef, carrots, and potatoes came next, and this in turn was followed by an omelette. Then followed a small portion of beef to each man, we called this chicken in our glorious game of make-believe. Kore asserted that he had caught the chicken singing The Watch on the Rhine on the top of a neighbouring chateau and took it as lawful booty of war.
"Chicken, my big toe!" muttered Bill, using his clasp-knife for a tooth-pick. "It's as tough as a rifle sling. Yer must have got hold of the bloomin' weathercock."
The confiture was Stoner's greatest feat. The sweet was made from biscuits ground to powder, boiled and then mixed with jam. Never was anything like it. We lingered over the dish loud in our praise of the energetic Stoner. "By God, I'll give you a job as head-cook in my establishment at your own salary," said Pryor. "Strike me ginger, pink, and crimson if ever I ate anything like it," exclaimed Bill. "We must 'ave a bit of this at every meal from now till the end of the war."
Coffee, wine, and cigars came in due course, then Section 3 clamoured for an address.
"Ool give it?" asked Bill.
"Pat," said Mervin.
"Come on Pat," chorused Section 3.
I never made a speech in my life, but I felt that this was the moment to do something. I got to my feet.