At this mention of canned corned beef, generally dubbed "Willie," or "Bill," there was a groan from the lads who had just come off duty. "Beans!" cried one. "I'm ashamed to look a bean in the eye." "Beans don't have eyes--you're thinking of potatoes!" was a retort. "Well, give us potatoes then, but not beans, O Cookie!" "Make it a beef stew with plenty of gravy!" shouted a burly chap. "Pie! Pie! We want pie!" came the grim chorus again. "Say, you fellers'll drive me crazy!" stormed the cook, shaking his fists in the air. "There ain't no such animile as pie, gol ding it!" "Give us pudding then!" someone suggested. "Oh say! By Hezekiah Slifkins!" cried the cook. "If you fellers want puddin' make it yourselves! I'm through!" Bob had a sudden inspiration. As he saw the tired, careworn faces of the lads who had just come in from a nerve-racking tour of duty, exposed to death and danger--faces which, in the ordinary course of events, were too young to have such strained looks, Bob wished he could do something to help relieve them. And, from his own experience, he knew that food would do this. "And there is food--and food," he told himself. The daily mess of the trench was not very elaborate--in the nature of things it could not be. And one of the great cravings of the fighters was for sweets. That is why there was such a lot of chocolate used. "Pie! Pie! We want pie!" came the doleful chant again. "By Theophilus Porkenheimer!" shouted the cook, "if I hear that there word agin, I'll----" "Say," said Bob, sliding up to him, "have you any bread or crackers?" "Yes, I've got lots of that, son. Fresh supply jest come in." "Got any molasses and condensed milk?" "Yep. But say, that ain't pie, nor yet puddin'." "Maybe we can turn it into something like it," went on Bob, "if we've got any prunes in this dump----" "Prunes! By Hezekiah Albatross!" cried the cook, "there ain't a prune nigher'n ten mile!" "Yes there is!" asserted one of the doughboys. "The supply company in the next trench has a lot of 'em, but they're short of condensed milk. If we could make a trade----" "Go try it!" cried Bob. "If--well, we'll make some prune slump." "Who's 'we,' an' what's 'prune slump'?" asked the cook. "Dunno's I ever hearn tell of it." "By 'we' I mean Jimmy, Roger, Iggy and I can make prune slump," went on Bob. "I suppose you'd call it plum duff in the navy. But you take some prunes, stew 'em, make a sort of batter of crumbled-up bread or crackers, slap in some molasses and condensed milk, and bake it in a pan. We used to have it at Camp Sterling. 'Member, Jimmy?" "I should say so! Go to it, kiddo!" "Here are the prunes!" cried a lad, coming back with a big bag full. "They were crazy to trade 'em for condensed milk. Trot out your cans, Cookie."