"This is the fourth day, sir, and if you have another slice, there will only be a small piece of crust for to-morrow's breakfast." "All right, Cotton, I will sleep to dinner-time instead." It was a joyful day when my first parcels arrived in camp. I was too excited about it to eat alone that day; and I invited young Martell of the R.N.A.S. to come and dine with me in my room. There was a tin of soup and a tin of tripe and onions, and some biscuits and cheese. What a banquet! Martell and I decided to do ourselves in style. We even went so far as to send Cotton to the canteen for two glasses of what we indulgently patronised the canteen manager's humour by calling port wine. Martell cooked the tripe and onions, after opening the tin with his penknife, and boiled it on the stove. The more we thought of that meal, the more we schemed to make a spread of it. Cotton, too, rose to the occasion. From the canteen he obtained a sheet of white paper for a table-cloth, and by the side of each plate he placed a clean white handkerchief for serviettes. The table was just a little rough, wooden one, about two feet square. The room was swept and the beds made to give the room a tidy appearance, and then we sat down. Yes, Cotton understood. He knew that that meal was 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.