irette.

"Journalists?"

"Why, yes, the individuals that lay the newspapers. You don't seem to
catch on, fathead. Newspapers must have chaps to write 'em."

"Then it's those that stuff up our craniums?" says Marthereau.

Barque assumes a shrill treble, and pretending that he has a newspaper
in front of his nose, recites--"'The Crown Prince is mad, after having
been killed at the beginning of the campaign, and meanwhile he has all
the diseases you can name. William will die this evening, and again
to-morrow. The Germans have no more munitions and are chewing wood.
They cannot hold out, according to the most authoritative calculations,
beyond the end of the week. We can have them when we like, with their
rifles slung. If one can wait a few days longer, there will be no
desire to forsake the life of the trenches. One is so comfortable
there, with water and gas laid on, and shower-baths at every step. The
only drawback is that it is rather too hot in winter. As for the
Austrians, they gave in a long time since and are only pretending.' For
fifteen months now it's been like that, and you can hear the editor
saying to his scribes, 'Now, boys, get into it! Find some way of
brushing that up again for me in five secs, and make it spin out all
over those four damned white sheets that we've got to mucky.'"

"Ah, yes!" says Fouillade.

"Look here, corporal; you're making fun of it--isn't it true what I
said?"

"There's a little truth in it, but you're too slashing on the poor
boys, and you'd be the first to make a song about it if you had to go
without papers. Oui, when the paper-man's going by, why do you all
shout, 'Here, here'?"

"And what good can you get out of them all?" cries Papa Blaire. "Read
'em by the tubful if you like, but do the same as me--don't believe
'em!"

"Oui, oui, that's enough about them. Turn the page over, donkey-nose."

The conversation is breaking up; interest in it follows suit and is
scattered. Four poilus join in a game of manille, that will last until
night blacks out the cards. Volpatte is trying to catch a leaf of
cigarette paper that has escaped his fingers and goes hopping and
dodging in the wind along the wall of the trench like a fragile
butterfly.

Cocon and Tirette are recalling their memories of barrack-life. The
impressions left upon their minds by those years of military training
are ineffaceable. Into that fund of abundant souvenirs, of abiding
color and instant service, the