s taking our thoughts
back to England. It was taking him back, too. He knew that we imagined
we were back again in the mess; and he imagined the same thing
himself.

In that little room, and in the presence of that tin of tripe and
onions we forgot we were prisoners; we forgot that rows and rows of
barbed wire bound us in captivity; we ignored the footsteps of the
sentry pacing up and down outside our window, and the sharp yelping of
the dogs.

We were back in the mess, and we chatted and laughed during the meal
as we had done in the old days, while our spirits rose with the aroma
of the tripe and onion; and Cotton stood behind me silent and
attentive, removing the plates, washing them, and replacing them ready
for the next course, pretending he was drawing plates from a
well-filled pantry.

We finished our repast with biscuits and cheese, and then we solemnly
stood, and raising our glasses, toasted the King.

Then we drew our chairs round the fire, and heating the coffee which
was left over from breakfast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of
two cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided for the occasion
from the canteen.

Yes, people of England, living at home in luxury, by the protection of
a thin line of khaki; when you become anxious at the prospect of one
meatless day per week, try living for a fortnight on slops, and then
appreciate the glories of a tin of tripe and onions.

Still, one can live on slops, and improve a meal by a vivid
imagination. In fact, imagination is a distinct advantage when sitting
down hungrily to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes for
dinner.

When the door used to open and Cotton appeared with this unsavoury
repast, which was always the same each day, I would say to him in the
most indifferent tone I could assume:

"Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day?"

"Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be anything; it looks like
hot water."

"Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. How dull you are! There must
have been a battle in the North Sea!"

"How do you know that, sir?"

"It's the way the Germans have. This soup is hot sea-water; it is to
celebrate a victory."

The next day there would be a slight difference in the soup, and again
Cotton would gravely shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery.

"My dear Cotton, when will you learn to gather information from your
rations by a method of deduction?"

"Has there been another battle in the N