“Yes—the brutes haven’t treated it kindly,” said Augustus, wiping his eyes. “Here, Vereker, you’re Provost-Marshal. Serve them so that they go bad—and see how they like it.”
“It may just have a superficial coating of mould or mildew that can be taken off,” said Bertram.
“Let’s go an’ interview the dam’ thing,” suggested Augustus. “We can then take measures—or rum.”
The Bristol Bar was deserted in the twinkling of an eye as, headed by the Major, the dozen or so of British officers sought out the Pudding, that they might hold an inquest upon it. . . .
Near the cooking-fire in the straw shed behind the Officers’ Mess banda, upon some boards beside a tin sarcophagus, lay a large green ball, suggestive of a moon made of green cheese.
In silent sorrow the party gazed upon it, stricken and stunned. And the congregation of servants stood afar off and watched.
Suddenly the Major snatched up the gleaming panga that had been used for prising open the case and for cutting open the tin box in which the green horror had arrived.
Raising the weapon above his head, the Major smote with all his might. Right in the centre of the Pudding the heavy, sharp-edged blade struck and sank. . . . The Pudding fell in halves, revealing an interior even greener and more horrible than the outside, as a cloud of greenish, smoke-like dust went up to the offended heavens. . . .
“Bury the damned Thing,” said the Major, and in his wake the officers of the Butindi garrison filed out, their hearts too full, their stomachs too empty for words.
And the servants buried the Pudding, obeying the words of the Major.