Tales of a Vagabond Soldier
II.
AN UNWILLING COOK.
Feingold is anxious to write.
"Not now," he explains, "but in the summer when I have more time." And his eyes resting on some photographs of my camp lightens up. "How would it be if you let me camp with you next summer? You know I'm a soldier and used to camp life."
I make gentle demure. I need rest, am too tired and worn out by the summer to think of mental work, mere play to his tireless brain.
"But I can be of service; I can help you in other ways. I'm a shochet, I can kill chickens."
I shake my head. "No farmyards, no chickens to kill. Just a great stretch of sand beach with the broad, illimitable ocean spread before to soothe the tired nerves."
"But I'm a cook, a good cook, too. You know, I cooked so well for my company that the captain thought to retain me for good in the camp kitchen."
"Really?" Finegold as an army cook is interesting.
"Yes! You see I had done something rascally bad and as punishment was detailed to do kitchen work for two weeks; what you would call scullery work. While in the kitchen I showed the cook one or two secrets of tasty cooking, and in a few days he let me do most of it. The men liked my dishes so much that Captain Pritchard thought it would be a good thing to keep me there for always." Finegold smiled knowingly. "But that was
not in my programme. I was willing to show off my accomplishments during my time of punishment, but to be doomed to cook forever—" Finegold shook his head. "When I thought if it, it didn't seem fair for a soldier in the American army to be disgraced in that way.
"All right!" I told the boys. "Pritchard can put me here, but he'll put me out in a hurry; you'll see.
"They bet me that I woudn't get out; and I took their bets, and went back to the kitchen. One day I left out the salt, and the next day I left out spices, so that the cooking was not so tasty. Sometimes the coffee was burned, and some days it was like water; but it was never my fault; at least Pritchard could not lay it at my door, because the cook was there. Pritchard would not discharge me from the kitchen; he had said so, and he had made up his mind that he liked my cooking. And so I made up my mind to do my worst. The next day I salted the soup good and plenty; and when the cook asked me if I had salted the soup I was so busy doing something else I couldn't answer him; and he somehow mistook no answer to mean that I did not put any in. So he put in his regular portion of salt.
"The boys were out on drill all that morning, and came to dinner like hungry wolves, ravenous for food. One taste of the soup then 'wow,' such a noise from one end of the mess-table to the other, and Captain Pritchard did not wait for more than one spoonful, before he came tearing into the kitchen, down the camp