[One of the attendant recruits takes the dish of turkey, and in making an unnecessary circuit of the table, flaps down upon his face; the dish is smashed, and the turkey rolls to the far end of the mess room, followed by streams of gravy and the regrets of the company.]
Ensign Newly. O, curse you for a clodhopper! Run after the turkey, you rascal.
[John runs and takes up the turkey, but drops it immediately.]
Lieut. Short. What do you drop the turkey for, Sir, eh?
John. (Blowing his fingers.) It’s roasting hot, zur.
Capt. Alder. Send the mess-waiter here, and then go to your duty, Sir. You are not fit to be a scullion.
[Exit John; and as he goes out, three pointer dogs and a terrier run into the mess-room, and skurry about; one of them seizes on the turkey, but finding it too hot for his palate, drops his prey, and begins to bark loudly at it. The Mess-waiter and two attendants arrive in time, and beat out the dogs, after some difficulty, owing to the canine taste for gravy.]
Lieut. Grub. Well, d— me, if this is not a pretty mess. I wish I was back with my old corps once more, in the wilds of Canada. I never saw a depôt mess yet that could manage a good servant.
Capt. Alder. Never! (In a whisper.) Did you ever know it to manage any thing good?
Lieut. Short. Mess-waiter! what follows this course?