“They drop one occasionally, though they don’t expect to get more than a man or two by chance, which is hardly worth the cost of the charge,” some one explained.  “You see that they must know just what our positions are from their understanding of our army’s organization, and the purpose is to bother us about bringing up supplies and reserves.  Start a commissariat train or a company in close order across, and—­whew!  The air screams!”

Once on the other side of the valley, and the maze of zigzags and parallels leading into the warrens was simplified by signs indicating the location of regiments.  At length the judge’s son found himself in the home cave of his own tribe.  His comrades were resting at the noon-hour, their backs against the wall of their shell-proof.  In the faint light their faces were as gray as the dust on the dirty uniforms that hung on their gaunt bodies.  Dust was caked in the seams around their eyes; their cheeks were covered with dusty beards.  Their greeting of the returned absentee was that of men who had passed through a strain that left existence untouched by the spring of average sensations.

“Did you get the custards?” asked the barber’s son in a squeaky voice.

“No, but I got a jelly once—­only once!”

“Snob!” said the barber’s son.

“Jelly!  I could eat a hogshead of jelly and still be empty!  What I want is fresh meat!” growled Pilzer, the butcher’s son.

“A hogshead of jelly might be good to bathe in!” said the banker’s son.  “I haven’t had a bath for a month.”

“I have.  I turned my underclothes inside out!” said the barber’s son.  He was aiming to take Hugo’s place as humorist, in the confidence of one sprung from a talkative family.

Scanning the faces, the judge’s son found many new ones—­those of the older reservists—­while many of the faces of barrack days were missing.

“Whom have we lost?” he asked.

The answer, given with dull matter-of-factness, revealed that, of the group that had talked so light-heartedly of war six weeks before, only little Peterkin, the valet’s son, and Pilzer, the butcher’s son, and the barber’s and the banker’s sons survived.  They were sitting in a row, from the instinct that makes old associates keep together even though they continually quarrel.  The striking thing was that Peterkin looked the most cheerful and well-kept of the four.  As the proud possessor of a pair of scissors, he had trimmed a surprisingly heavy beard Van Dyck fashion, which emphasized his peaked features and a certain consciousness of superiority; while the barber’s son sported only a few scraggly hairs.  The scant, reddish product of Pilzer’s cheeks, leaving bare the liver patch, only accentuated its repulsiveness and a savagery in his voice and look which was no longer latent under the conventional discipline of every-day existence.  The company had not been in the first Engadir assault, but, being near the Engadir position, had suffered heavily in support.