f poilus
that went on and up--like the sea itself, you'd say--and carrying on
across all the convoys of artillery and ambulance wagons that we met
that night. I've never seen so many, so many convoys in the night,
never!" Then he deals himself a thump on the chest, settles down again
in self-possession, groans, and says no more.

Blaire's voice rises, giving expression to the haunting thought that
wakes in the depths of the men: "It's four o'clock. It's too late for
there to be anything from our side."

One of the gamesters in the other corner yelps a question at another:
"Now then? Are you going to play or aren't you, worm-face?"

Tirette continues the story of his major: "Behold one day they'd served
us at the barracks with some suetty soup. Old man, a disease, it was!
So a chap asks to speak to the captain, and holds his mess-tin up to
his nose."

"Numskull!" some one shouts in the other corner. "Why didn't you trump,
then?"

"'Ah, damn it,' said the captain, 'take it away from my nose, it
positively stinks.'"

"It wasn't my game," quavers a discontented but unconvinced voice.

"And the captain, he makes a report to the major. But behold the major,
mad as the devil, he butts in shaking the paper in his paw: 'What's
this?' he says. 'Where's the soup that has caused this rebellion, that
I may taste it?' They bring him some in a clean mess-tin and he sniffs
it. 'What now!' he says, 'it smells good. They damned well shan't have
it then, rich soup like this!'"

"Not your game! And he was leading, too! Bungler! It's unlucky, you
know."

"Then at five o'clock as we were coming out of barracks, our two
marvels butt in again and plank themselves in front of the swaddies
coming out, trying to spot some little thing not quite so, and he said,
'Ah, my bucks, you thought you'd score off me by complaining of this
excellent soup that I have consumed myself along with my partner here;
just wait and see if I don't get even with you. Hey, you with the long
hair, the tall artist, come here a minute!' And all the time the beast
was jawing, his bag-o'-bones--as straight and thin as a post--went
'oui, oui' with her head."

"That depends; if he hadn't a trump, it's another matter."

"But all of a sudden we see her go white as a sheet, she puts her fist
on her tummy and she shakes like all that, and then suddenly, in front
of all the fellows that filled the square, she drops her umbrella and
starts spewing!"

"Hey, listen!"