“You have all the making of an army cook—­you ought to have been one,” said Barque.

“My idea, too,” retorted Blaire innocently.  Some one laughed.  The black man got up at the insult.  “You give me belly-ache,” he said with scorn.  “I’m off to the latrines.”

When his doubly dark silhouette had vanished, the others scrutinized once more the great truth that down here in the earth the cooks are the dirtiest of men.

“If you see a chap with his skin and toggery so smeared and stained that you wouldn’t touch him with a barge-pole, you can say to yourself, ‘Probably he’s a cook.’  And the dirtier he is, the more likely to be a cook.”

“It’s true, and true again,” said Marthereau.

“Tiens, there’s Tirloir!  Hey, Tirloir!”

He comes up busily, peering this way and that, on an eager scent.  His insignificant head, pale as chlorine, hops centrally about in the cushioning collar of a greatcoat that is much too heavy and big for him.  His chin is pointed, and his upper teeth protrude.  A wrinkle round his mouth is so deep with dirt that it looks like a muzzle.  As usual, he is angry, and as usual, he rages aloud.

“Some one cut my pouch in two last night!”

“It was the relief of the 129th.  Where had you put it?”

He indicates a bayonet stuck in the wall of the trench close to the mouth of a funk-hole—­“There, hanging on the toothpick there.”

“Ass!” comes the chorus.  “Within reach of passing soldiers!  Not dotty, are you?”

“It’s hard lines all the same,” wails Tirloir.  Then suddenly a fit of rage seizes him, his face crumples, his little fists clench in fury, he tightens them like knots in string and waves them about.  “Alors quoi?  Ah, if I had hold of the mongrel that did it!  Talk about breaking his jaw—­I’d stave in his bread-pan, I’d—­there was a whole Camembert in there, I’ll go and look for it.”  He massages his stomach with the little sharp taps of a guitar player, and plunges into the gray of the morning, grinning yet dignified, with his awkward outlines of an invalid in a dressing-gown.  We hear him grumbling until he disappears.

“Strange man, that,” says Pepin; the others chuckle.  “He’s daft and crazy,” declares Marthereau, who is in the habit of fortifying the expression of his thought by using two synonyms at once.

* * * * * *

“Tiens, old man,” says Tulacque, as he comes up.  “Look at this.”

Tulacque is magnificent.  He is wearing a lemon-yellow coat made out of an oilskin sleeping-sack.  He has arranged a hole in the middle to get his head through, and compelled his shoulder-straps and belt to go over it.  He is tall and bony.  He holds his face in advance as he walks, a forceful face, with eyes that squint.  He has something in his hand.  “I found this while digging last night at the end of the new gallery to change the rotten gratings.  It took my fancy off-hand, that knick-knack.  It’s an old pattern of hatchet.”