The queue stretched along the duckboards and in between the tents like a
dingy snake in the gathering gloom. It was rapidly growing in length as
more and more men came hurrying up.

But the front of the cook-house was still closed. The men grew impatient
and banged their plates and tins. There were shouts of "Get a move on."
Fretful, smouldering impatience increased until it flared up in anger.
"Get a bloody move on--we want somethin' ter eat after a 'ard day's
work!... _We've_ got a fine bloody lot o' cooks, keepin' us waitin' in
the bloody cold--get a move on, for Christ's sake!"

The shout was taken up all along the line--"Get a bloody move on"--and
tins and plates were banged until the uproar was deafening. It gradually
died down again, although curses and resentful remarks were still
frequent.

"'Tain't worth eatin' when yer do get it!"

"Bleed'n' stew, I s'pose, 'nough ter make yer go queer!"

"I wouldn't feed me dog on the stuff they give yer in the army--I
wouldn't 'ave the cheek ter orfer it to 'im."

"Come on ... put a jerk in it"--the cry was taken up again. There was
hooting and booing and banging of plates until pandemonium reigned once
more.

Suddenly the shutter in front of the cook-house was pushed up and one of
the cooks appeared in the opening. The booing changed into loud,