The rolls, the long French kind, were brought each morning in "Flossie,"
by the day staff on their way up from the "shop" referred to in a
F.A.N.Y. alphabet as

"R's for the 'Roll-call'"--a terrible fag--
"Fetching six yards of bread, done up in a bag!"

The other meals were provided by the Belgians and supplemented to a
great extent by us. I am quite convinced we often ate good old horse.
One day, when prowling round the shops to get something fresh for the
night staff's supper, I went into a butcher's. The good lady came
forward to ask me what I wished. I told her; and she smiled agreeably,
saying, "Impossible, Mademoiselle, since long time we have only horse
here for sale!" I got out of that shop with speed.

The orderlies on night duty, on the surgical side, were a lazy lot and
slept the whole night through, more often than not on the floor of the
kitchen. One night the incomparable "Jefké," who was worse than most,
was fast asleep in a dark spot near the big stove, when I went to get
some hot water. He was practically invisible, so I narrowly missed
stepping on his head, and, as it was, collapsed over him, breaking the
tea-pot. Cicely, the ever witty, quickly parodied one of the "Ruthless
Rhymes," and said:--

"Pat who trod on Jefké's face
(He was fast asleep, so let her,)
Put the pieces back in place,
Saying, 'Don't you think he looks _much_ better'?"