With a sigh of relief the captain exclaimed, “I thought you were giving your order.”

“Goodness, no!” With a laugh the girl seated herself upon her one camp-chair, inviting her callers to dispose themselves on the ground about her.  “If you can stand the food, I dare say I can.  Now then, tell me what you’ve been doing since you left Cubitas.  I’ve been frightened to death that some of you would be hurt.  That’s one reason why I’ve been working night and day helping to get the hospitals in shape.  I can’t bear to think of our boys being wounded.”

“Not much chance of our getting shot,” O’Reilly told her.  “But Leslie—­he needs a good talking to.  He has gone into the hero business.”

Branch uttered a disdainful grunt.  “Nothing of the sort.  I’m a sick man; if I’d rather get shot than suffer a slow death from neglect, it’s my own business, isn’t it?  Imagine feeding an invalid on boiled bicycle tires!  Gee!  I’d like to have a meal of nice nourishing ptomaines for a change.  Hero?  Humph!”

Norine eyed the complainant critically, then said:  “The diet agrees with you.  You look better than you did.”

Branch turned a somber glance upon her and gave vent to a bitter, sneering laugh.  It was plain that he believed she, too, was attempting to pull the wool over his eyes.  “I wish I could find some poisonous toadstools.  I’d eat ’em raw.”

“Listen,” Norine went on.  “Let’s play a game.  We’ll imagine this is Delmonico’s and we’ll all take turns ordering the best things to eat that we can think of.  The one who orders best, wins.  We’ll call the game—­” She frowned thoughtfully.

“Call it ‘Vittles,’” O’Reilly suggested.

“‘Vittles’ it is.  Maybe it will give us an appetite for supper.  Leslie, you begin.  Come now, hand your hat to the hat-boy, then follow the head waiter.  This way, sir.  Table for one?  Very good, sir.  Here’s a cool one, in front of the electric fan.  We have an exceptional selection of cold dishes to-day, sir.  Perhaps you would like a nice halibut salad—­”

“No halibut salad,” Branch answered, striving valiantly to enter into the spirit of Norine’s pretending.  “I had it for breakfast.  And say, turn off that fan; I’m just back from Cuba.  Now then, you may bring me some oysters—­”

“Oysters are out of season,” O’Reilly murmured, politely, “but our clams are very fine.”

“Some oysters,” Branch insisted, stubbornly.  “After that, a cup of chicken broth, a grilled sweetbread, and toast Melba.”

Joe Judson put an abrupt end to the invalid’s meal by hurling a clod at him, crying:  “You’re in Delmonico’s, not in Battle Creek.  Let somebody order who knows how.  We’ll have steak and onions all around.”

“I want strawberries!” Norine cried.  “They’re ripe now.  Strawberries and cream—­Oh-h!  Think of it!”

There was a tense silence, which O’Reilly broke by saying, “I guess ‘Vittles’ isn’t a very good game, after all.”