“We’ll make a second brew,” said Miss Rutherford. “I have another package. Jimmy, do you know if there’s any water in this neighbourhood?” “There’s a well beyond,” said Jimmy, “at the end of the field across the hill, but I don’t would the likes of yez drink the water that does be in it.” “Saltish?” said Priscilla. “It is not then. But the cattle does be drinking out of it and I wouldn’t say it was too clean.” “If we boil it,” said Frank, “that won’t matter.” He had read, as most of us did at the time, accounts of the precautions taken by the Japanese doctors during the war with Russia to save the soldiers under their care from enteric fever. He believed that boiling removed dirt from water. “There’s worms in it,” said Jimmy. “It’s hardly ever you take a cupful out of it without you’d feel the worms on your tongue and you drinking it.” Miss Rutherford looked at Priscilla, who appeared undismayed at the prospect of swallowing worms. Then she looked at Frank. He was evidently doubtful. His faith in boiling did not save him from a certain shrinking from wormy soup. “Once we were out for a picnic,” said Priscilla, “and when we’d finished tea we found a frog, dead, of course, in the bottom of the kettle. It hadn’t flavoured the tea in the least. In fact we didn’t know it was there till afterwards.” She poured out the cold soup into the two cups and the enamelled mug as she spoke. Then she handed the pot to Jimmy. “Run now,” she said, “and fill that up with your dirty water. We’ll have the stove lit and the other packet of soup ready by the time you’re back.” The soup which had not boiled away was very thick indeed. It turned out to be impossible to drink it, but Priscilla discovered that it could be poured out slowly, like clotted cream, on pieces of bread held ready for it under the rims of the cups. It remained, spreading gradually, on top of the bread long enough to allow a prompt eater to get the whole thing into his mouth without allowing any of the soup to be wasted by dripping on to the ground. The flavour was excellent. Jimmy returned with the water. Miss Rutherford put the pot on the stove at once. It was better, she said, to boil it without looking at it. “The directions for use,” said Priscilla, “say that the water should be brought to the boil before the soup is put in. But that, of course, is ridiculous. We’ll put the dry soup in at once and let it simmer. I expect the flavour will come out all right if we leave it till it does boil.” “In the meanwhile,” said Miss Rutherford, “we’ll attack the Californian peaches.” They ate them, as they had eaten the others the day before, in their fingers, straight out of the tin with greedy rapture. Five half peaches, nearly all the juice, and a large chunk of bread, were given to Jimmy Kinsella, who carried them off and devoured them in privacy behind his boat.