It is a company of Territorials, deputed to our sector for the fortification of the second line and the upkeep of its communication trenches.  They come into view—­miserable bundles of implements, and dragging their feet.

We watch them, one by one, as they come up, pass, and disappear.  They are stunted and elderly, with dusty faces, or big and broken-winded, tightly enfolded in greatcoats stained and over-worn, that yawn at the toothless gaps where the buttons are missing.

Tirette and Barque, the twin wags, leaning close together against the wall, stare at them, at first in silence.  Then they begin to smile.

“March past of the Broom Brigade,” says Tirette.

“We’ll have a bit of fun for three minutes,” announces Barque.

Some of the old toilers are comical.  This one whom the file brings up has bottle-shaped shoulders.  Although extremely narrow-chested and spindle-shanked, he is big-bellied.  He is too much for Barque.  “Hullo, Sir Canteen!” he says.

When a more outrageously patched-up greatcoat appears than all the others can show, Tirette questions the veteran recruit.  “Hey, Father Samples!  Hey, you there!” he insists.

The other turns and looks at him, open-mouthed.

“Say there, papa, if you will be so kind as to give me the address of your tailor in London!”

A chuckle comes from the antiquated and wrinkle-scrawled face, and then the poilu, checked for an instant by Barque’s command, is jostled by the following flood and swept away.

When some less striking figures have gone past, a new victim is provided for the jokers.  On his red and wrinkled neck luxuriates some dirty sheep’s-wool.  With knees bent, his body forward, his back bowed, this Territorial’s carriage is the worst.

“Tiens!” bawls Tirette, with pointed finger, “the famous concertina-man!  It would cost you something to see him at the fair—­here, he’s free gratis!”

The victim stammers responsive insults amid the scattered laughter that arises.

No more than that laughter is required to excite the two comrades.  It is the ambition to have their jests voted funny by their easy audience that stimulates them to mock the peculiarities of their old comrades-in-arms, of those who toil night and day on the brink of the great war to make ready and make good the fields of battle.

And even the other watchers join in.  Miserable themselves, they scoff at the still more miserable.

“Look at that one!  And that, look!”

“Non, but take me a snapshot of that little rump-end!  Hey, earth-worm!”

“And that one that has no ending!  Talk about a sky-scratcher!  Tiens, la, he takes the biscuit.  Yes, you take it, old chap!”

This man goes with little steps, and holds his pickax up in front like a candle; his face is withered, and his body borne down by the blows of lumbago.

“Like a penny, gran’pa?” Barque asks him, as he passes within reach of a tap on the shoulder.