gang: "Think you're going to do it, old duckfoot?"

"Nom de Dieu!" roars he, engrossed in his job, "mind these setts!
You're going to wreck the show!" With a sudden movement he jostles
Barque again, and this time turns round on him: "What are you doing
there, dung-guts, numskull?"

"Non, it can't be that you're drunk?" Barque retorts. "'What am I
doing here?' It's good, that! Tell me, you lousy gang, wouldn't you
like to do it too!"

"Out of the way!" cries a new voice, which precedes some men doubled
up under burdens incongruous, but apparently overwhelming.

One can no longer remain anywhere. Everywhere we are in the way. We
go forward, we scatter, we retire in the turmoil.

"In addition, I tell you," continues Cocon, tranquil as a scientist,
"there are the Divisions, each organized pretty much like an Army
Corps--"

"Oui, we know it; miss the deal!"

"He makes a fine to-do about it all, that mountebank in the
horse-box on casters. What a mother-in-law he'd make!"

"I'll bet that's the Major's wrong-headed horse, the one that the
vet said was a calf in process of becoming a cow."

"It's well organized, all the same, all that, no doubt about it,"