One by one the men appear from the depths. In the corners, heavy
shadows are seen forming--human clouds that move and break up. One
by one they become recognizable. There is one who comes out hooded
with his blanket--a savage, you would say, or rather, the tent of a
savage, which walks and sways from side to side. Near by, and
heavily framed in knitted wool, a square face is disclosed,
yellow-brown as though iodized, and patterned with blackish patches,
the nose broken, the eyes of Chinese restriction and red-circled, a
little coarse and moist mustache like a greasing-brush.

"There's Volpatte. How goes it, Firmin?"

"It goes, it goes, and it comes," says Volpatte. His heavy and
drawling voice is aggravated by hoarseness. He coughs--"My number's
up, this time. Say, did you hear it last night, the attack? My boy,
talk about a bombardment--something very choice in the way of
mixtures!" He sniffles and passes his sleeve under his concave nose.
His hand gropes within his greatcoat and his jacket till it finds
the skin, and scratches. "I've killed thirty of them in the candle,"
he growls; "in the big dug-out by the tunnel, mon vieux, there are
some like crumbs of metal bread. You can see them running about in
the straw like I'm telling you."

"Who's been attacking? The Boches?"

"The Boches and us too--out Vimy way--a counterattack--didn't you
hear it?"

"No," the big Lamuse, the ox-man, replies on my account; "I was