at's the matter with your face?" he asks me--he has seen me point
out to Paradis the possible entry of the bullet. I pretend not to
understand and then make some kind of evasive reply. All at once I have
a torturing idea--the smell! It is there, and there is no mistaking it.
It reveals a corpse; and perhaps he will guess rightly.

It seems to me that he has suddenly smelt the sign--the pathetic,
lamentable appeal of the dead. But he says nothing, continues his
solitary walk, and disappears round the corner.

"Yesterday," says Paradis to me, "he came just here, with his mess-tin
full of rice that he didn't want to eat. Just as if he knew what he was
doing, the fool stops here and talks of pitching the rest of his food
over the bank, just on the spot where--where the other was. I couldn't
stick that, old chap. I grabbed his arm just as he chucked the rice
into the air, and it flopped down here in the trench. Old man, he
turned round on me in a rage and all red in the face, 'What the hell's
up with you now?' he says. I looked as fat-headed as I could, and
mumbled some rot about not doing it on purpose. He shrugs his
shoulders, and looks at me same as if I was dirt. He goes off, saying
to himself, 'Did you see him, the blockhead?' He's bad-tempered, you
know, the poor chap, and I couldn't complain. 'All right, all right,'
he kept saying; and I didn't like it, you know, because I did wrong all
the time, although I was right."

We go back together in silence and re-enter the dugout where the others
are gathered. It is an old headquarters post, and spacious. Just as we
slide in, Paradis listens. "Our batteries have been playing extra hell
for the last hour, don't you think?"

I know what he means, and reply with an empty gesture, "We shall see,
old man, we shall see all right!"

In the dug-out, to an audience of three, Tirette is again pouring out
his barrack-life tales. Marthereau is snoring in a corner; he is close
to the entry, and to get down we have to stride over his short legs,
which seem to have gone back into his trunk. A group of kneeling men
around a folded blanket are playing with cards--

"My turn!"--"40, 42--48--49!--Good!"

"Isn't he lucky, that game-bird; it's imposs', I've got stumped three
times I want nothing more to do with you. You're skinning me this
evening, and you robbed me the other day, too, you infernal
fritter!"--"What did you revoke for, mugwump?"--"I'd only the king,
nothing else."

"Al