“For instance?” asked Don.
“Horse-meat.”
“I’m game,” laughed the new student.
Less than five minutes later Don and George, at the head of the advance-guard, reached the dining-hall. They found it a crude, unpretentious structure exteriorally, and equally crude and unpretentious in regard to its interior arrangements. The tables were of rough boards, and tabourets, or stools, took the place of chairs.
The mess-hall was soon filled with a noisy, jolly crowd. Clearly, the hazardous nature of the work had no distressing effects on the minds of the élèves. To judge by the manner of those present, theirs might have been the least dangerous of professions; yet, nevertheless, the talk often reverted to the accidents or near-accidents which had occurred on the flying field. But it was the keen enthusiasm of all that especially appealed to Don Hale. Probably none among the gathering enjoyed the meal more than he. The dim, fantastic light cast by the oil lamps, the sombre ever-changing shadows on faces and forms, the grotesque and larger shadows that sported themselves on the four walls, the shrouded, obscured corners, all added their share to the charm and novelty.
A particularly fastidious person could very easily have found fault with the meal, which consisted of soup, meat, mashed potatoes, lentils, war bread and coffee. The horse-meat was tough, the lentils rather gritty, as though some of the soil in which they were planted had determinedly resolved to stand by them to the end. But to hungry men, whose lives in the open meant healthy, vigorous appetites, such little unconventionalities in the art of cooking were of but trifling importance.
As the students were filing out, not in the most orderly fashion, into the clear, moonlit night, Jack Norworth joined Don and George.
“All ready, boys, for the Café Rochambeau?” he asked.
“You bet we are!” cried Don.