"What are those?" our American inquires, pointing to the locked
boxes.
He learns that they are chop boxes, containing food and supplies.
At this he rises on his hind legs and paws the air.
"Food!" he shrieks. "Why, man alive, I'm alone, and I am only
going to be out three months! I can carry all I'll ever eat in
three months in one of those boxes."
But the Englishman patiently explains. You cannot live on "bacon
and beans" in this country, so to speak. You must do yourself
rather well, you know, to keep in condition. And you cannot pack
food in bags, it must be tinned. And then, of course, such things
as your sparklet siphons and lime juice require careful
packing-and your champagne.
"Champagne," breathes the American in awestricken tones.
"Exactly, dear boy, an absolute necessity. After a touch of sun
there's nothing picks you up better than a mouthful of fizz. It's
used as a medicine, not a drink, you understand."
The American reflects again that this is the other fellow's game,
and that the other fellow has been playing it for some time, and
that he ought to know. But he cannot yet see why the one hundred
and fifty men. Again the Englishman explains. There is the
Headman to run the show.
