There always was hot mince pie for Sunday dinner on the train. The filling for it came out of buckets similar to the jelly containers, bearing labels picturing the fruits, condiments, meats and liquors which were the traditional components of that barbaric dish. The pictures were only symbolical, designed to provoke the appetite and spice the anticipation, the mixture within the pails containing little of the fruits and delicacies shown there in vivid green and red. It would have been an unwise and profitless exploration for anyone who had eaten or intended to eat the mixture, to inquire too closely into the ingredients of that brown, spiced hash.
What it contained or did not contain caused neither speculation nor disquiet in the minds or stomachs of the jerries. It had a racy nip to it, which might have been vinegar, cider or champagne for all a jerry cared, with plenty of sharp spices to delight their smoke-toughened palates. Each jerry had his wedge of it, cut to a true and impartial form. It was the very first thing laid down on the long table by Mary and Annie when they set the stage for the midday meal.
There was one slight deviation from the weekday program in the Sunday dinner: the girls did not remain in the dining-car after the jerries were seated. Instead of
