ful of slosh are disposed of, the unhappy foragers return.
They take in the situation at a glance — realize with painful distinctness that they have sacrificed the homely slosh for the vain expectancy of applebutter, shortcake and milk, and, with woeful countenance and mournful voice, narrate their adventure and disappointment thus: Well, boys, we have done the best we could.
We have walked about nine miles over the mountain, and haven't found a mouthful to eat. Sorry, but it's a fact.
Billy Brown fell down the mountain and mashed his nose; Patso nearly scratched his eyes out with the briars, and we are all hungry as dogs — give us our biscuit.
Of course there are none, and, as it is not contrary to army etiquette to do so, the whole mess professes to be very sorry, and is greatly delighted.
Sometimes, however, the foragers returned well laden with good things, and, as good comrades should, shared the fruits of their toilsome hunt with the whole mess.
Foragers thought it not i