The gump was picked, cleaned, unjointed, and put in the pan with neatness and despatch that would have done credit to any chef. The coffee boiled fragrantly in the tin can. The owner of the stale loaf hacked it into three equal parts with his strong pocketknife, while the chicken man deftly turned sections of the bird with a sharp-pointed stick.

“This is a pretty snide jungle,” he said, “no cans. Throw your feet, kid, and get some cans for the Java.”

I scurried around and was lucky to find one small can in the dark. The cook inspected it. “Go down and wash it, bring it back half full of water an’ I’ll boil it out.”