“We must go to this,” said Evans, and with some alarm I noticed that of the five other members of our mess, four were preparing to move seating accommodation. “That’s all very jolly,” I said, “but who’s going to cook the dinner?” The answer came back with a startling unanimity. “You.” “But look here,” I began to protest, “you know what I am at these things. I’ve never cooked a dinner before.” “Time you began then.” And I was left standing before an empty stove. There remained only one other member of our mess, my friend Barron, who spent the greater part of his day asleep. I woke him up. “Barron,” I said, “we’ve got to cook the dinner.” He blinked up through sleep-laden eyes. “But, my dear Alec....” “It’s no good,” I said sternly. “If we want anything to eat, and I most certainly do, we’ve got to cook it ourselves.” Slowly Barron rose from his seat. “Well,” he said, “what have you got?” “There’s a tin of bully, some beans, half a Maconochie, we can make a stew of that.” The stew was the work of a second. We mixed it all up with water, scattered some salt on the top, and left it to boil. “And now the pudding,” I said. This proved a more difficult matter. There was no rice left, and we had used the last of the Turban packets. “Archie,” I said, “we’ll have to invent one.” For five minutes we argued about the ingredients. Hodges wanted to give it a fish-flavour by adding a tin of salmon and shrimp paste. “There’s been no taste to the beastly thing for the last six days,” he protested. “It might just as well taste of that as nothing.” Finally, however, we decided on what we euphemistically dubbed a chocolate _soufflé_. First of all we spread a handkerchief flat on the table, and sprinkled over it a little cornflour. We then took a packet of cocoa. “How much shall I upset?” I asked. We read the directions on the outside, but on the subject of chocolate _soufflés_ the manufacturers were sadly reticent. So as there was no clear guide, we used the entire packet. The mixture now seemed to demand some moisture, so we poured a little warm water on it, and tried to knead it into a dough. But it did not work: a brown paste adhered to our fingers; nothing more. “It won’t bind,” said Barron. “We must put some butter with it.” “We’ve got no butter.” “Oh, well, then, try some beef-dripping.” So the next ingredient was half a tin of dripping, and as regards appearances it certainly had excellent results. A few minutes’ hard kneading produced an admirable dough. But when we sucked our fingers afterwards, the flavour was anything but that of chocolate. It had a thick and greasy taste. “Alec,” said Hodges, “this dripping’s ruined it.” “Your idea,” I said cheerfully. For a moment he looked fierce, then returned to the matter in hand. “Something’s got to be done,” he said; “we’ve got to swamp that dripping somehow.” “What about some treacle?” I hazarded. “We drew some this afternoon.”