_Grumb_. Oh! of course, you can say the Commissariat (if you spell it
with a big C) doesn't mean the meat, or the soup, or the puddings, or
the greens, or the butter, or the coals, or the rest of it--but if it
isn't these, I should like to know what it is.

_Cheer_. (_loftily_). My good friend, it is easy for you to say this
thing or the other was not to your fancy, but it was not quite so easy
a matter for our landlord to provide a daily supply of meat, bread,
and dairy stuff for some four hundred people; especially as it had to
be organised for the occasion, without previous experience. I take it
if you knew how the farmers had to be coaxed to sell us their butter,
how green things couldn't be had in the markets for love or money, and
if you knew how many miles of railway those beeves travelled to and
fro between pasture, slaughter-house, and kitchen, before their weary
joints rested on our table, I say you would thank the commissariat
that you hadn't something worth grumbling about. I am glad we never
were on famine rations. I asked to live, not to live well.

_Grumb_. (_a trifle ashamed, but dogged_). Why, of course, I don't
mean to say things might not have been worse. Still I stick to it,
they were not nice.

_Cheer_. But you'll admit the commissariat did its work: the army was
fed. After all, the proof of a pudding is _not_ the eating of it, it
is how you feel after it. Now, people are not starved who look the
strong healthy fellows ours did when they went home after the first
term of it. No 'famine marks' in those firm, brown faces, eh? And
then, tell me, did the Rutland pastures ever yield such juicy mutton,
or flow so abundantly with milk?