"So am I," I said, "and I don't feel like imitating your wife's proud
reserve. I never want to see a chicken again except alive."
For the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat.
We had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs
for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. Meals became a
nuisance, and Mrs. Beale complained bitterly that we did not give her
a chance. She was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house,
and served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this
remote corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and
roast chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. Mr. Whistler, set to
paint signboards for public houses, might have felt the same restless
discontent. As for her husband, the hired retainer, he took life as
tranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the most
exhilarating farce he had ever been in. I think he looked on Ukridge
as an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in order
to enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. He made no
complaints of the food. When a man has supported life for a number of
years on incessant army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggs
scarcely strikes him.
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