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. (p. 126)
"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.
"Boys," I said, "it is a pleasure to rise and address you, although
you haven't shaved for days, and your faces remind me every time I
look at them of our rather sooty mess-tins."
(Bill: "Wot of yer own phiz.")
"Be quiet, Bill," I said, and continued.
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