Let them go out and eat with my boys." Her eyes flashed as on the day before, and he saw again the imperative expression on her face.
"That I won't; my men are _men_.

I've been out to your miserable barracks and watched them eat.

Faugh! Potatoes! Nothing but potatoes! No salt! Nothing! Only potatoes! I may have been mistaken, but I thought I understood them to say that that was all they ever got to eat.
Two meals a day and every day in the week ?" He nodded.
"Well, my men wouldn't stand that for a single day, much less a whole week.

Where is the key ?" "Hanging on that clothes-hook under the clock." He gave it easily enough, but as she was reaching down the key she heard him say: "Fancy niggers and tinned provisions." This time she really was angry.

The blood was in her cheeks as she turned on him.
"My men are not niggers.