One morning, about a month after the fight in the swamp, John was sitting at the table in his bungalow, a paper outspread before him, a pencil in his hand, and Said Mohammed standing at his elbow. "We must have it all first-rate, you know," he said. "Quite up to dick, sir; you may rely on me." "Well now, _hors d’oeuvres_--I think we might do without that." "With respect, sir, _hors d’oeuvres_ is _sine qua non_--correct card, sir, foundation of the _comme il faut_." "All right, then; stick down sardines: we’ve got a tin. Now _potage_--why the dickens don’t you put it in English, khansaman?" "The English tongue, sir, is great and glorious instrument, but too gross for refinements of culinary art. Soup!--listen to it--soup! disgusting monosyllable, sir, resembling hiccough. Contrast with the delicate vocables of French." "Well, what shall the _potage_ be?" "Clear, sir, for the ladies, _consommé à la Wanderobbo_." "What on earth is that?" "I beg you, sir, not to insist on answer," said the Bengali gravely. "Thick, for masculine gender: Scotch broth, concession to prejudices of great nation." "That’s all right. What’s next? _Poissons_! That looks fishy. Take care you don’t drop an _s_. What fish can we do?" "Coja hooked quantity of finny tribe which, with due sauce, may pass for trout." "Now for _entrées_." "The partridges you shot yesterday, sir, are in prime condition. I suggest _perdrix à la Swahili_. For _relevé_ I propose----" "I say, we’ll drop that. Let’s come to a good honest roast. Shoulder of lamb, say--but we can’t manage mint sauce. There’s no vinegar." "With respect, sir, in intelligent anticipation I provide for that. I put quantity of Bill’s honey in ferment, and made acidulous liquid passable imitation of vinegar; pious fraud." "Plenty of vegetables, of course." "_Croquettes de pomme de terre, choux-fleurs à la Lulu, topinambours à la crême_." "Look here, I can’t spell that crack-jaw. What, in plain English, are _topinambours_?" "In vulgar tongue, sir, Jerusalem artichokes; but you will agree that final syllable of artichokes is ominous and forbidding, especially to ladies." "Well, I’ve had enough of it. Finish the menu yourself. I’ve no doubt everything will be all right."