And within a minute the bulk of our pudding was further increased by an entire tin of treacle, and whatever its taste after that, it was certainly not of dripping. “That’s about enough, isn’t it?” I said. “Well, you know,” said Archie thoughtfully, “I don’t really think it would be harmed by some salmon and shrimp. After all, it would help to counterbalance the dripping.” But already I had begun to wrap the handkerchief round the brown sticky ball. When it was firmly incased and knotted, we lowered it into a small saucepan, put it on the oven, and waited for the wanderers’ return. They came back as usual with a great clatter of feet, expressing their hunger in the most forcible terms. “Hellish hungry,” shouted Evans, “and the dinner’s bound to be awful if Waugh’s cooked it.” “You wait,” I said, and plumped the stew down before him. This dish, probably because it had cooked itself, was quite eatable; and there was so much of it that in the earlier days it would have formed a meal of generous proportions. And by the time we had finished it, none of us felt in the mood for any more solid fare. Something delicate and appetising would have been delightful, a _pêche melba_ perhaps, but suet ... no. And of course this rather militated against the success of the chocolate _soufflé_. And to begin with, it was a little burnt. There was a large hole in the encircling handkerchief, and the bottom of the pudding was black. Considering the bulk of the pudding, this had really very little effect; but it prejudiced the others, and the artist has to be so tactful with his public. And then the pudding itself. Well, if we had not had the stew first, I am sure we should have all enjoyed it; but coming as it did on the top of a heavy dinner, even Barron and myself were hard driven to finish it. And it was only self-respect that made us. The others took a spoonful or two and desisted. Barron and I struggled manfully to the end, and were then conscious of four steely pairs of eyes. Evans, who acted as a sort of mess president, was the first to speak. “What did you two use to make this pudding?” “Oh, nothing much,” I said, in an offhand way; “a little cocoa, a little treacle, a little cornflour.” Somehow I felt I could not confess to the dripping. “But how much did you use?” Barron must be a braver man than I am, or it may have been he was still feeling a little sore because the salmon paste had not been included; at any rate he went straight to the point. “A tin of each.” There was a general consternation. That a whole tin of treacle, half a tin of dripping, a complete packet of cocoa, had all gone to a pudding that only a third of the mess had been able to eat at all ... it was unbelievable, a gross case of misplaced trust, perfidy could go no further.