blinked among the dust that luxuriated on his face. Above the gap of
his toothless mouth, his mustache made a heavy sallow lump. His
hands were horribly black, the top of them shaggy with dirt, the
palms plastered in gray relief. Himself, shriveled and dirtbedight,
exhaled the scent of an ancient stewpan. Though busily scratching,
he chatted with big Barque, who leaned towards him from a little way
off.

"I wasn't as mucky as this when I was a civvy," he said.

"Well, my poor friend, it's a dirty change for the worse," said
Barque.

"Lucky for you," says Tirette, going one better; "when it comes to
kids, you'll present madame with some little niggers!"

Blaire took offense, and gathering gloom wrinkled his brow. "What
have you got to give me lip about, you? What next? It's war-time. As
for you, bean-face, you think perhaps the war hasn't changed your
phizog and your manners? Look at yourself, monkey-snout,
buttock-skin! A man must be a beast to talk as you do." He passed
his hand over the dark deposit on his face, which the rains of those
days had proved finally indelible, and added, "Besides, if I am as I
am, it's my own choosing. To begin with, I have no teeth. The major
said to me a long time ago, 'You haven't a single tooth. It's not
enough. At your next rest,' he says, 'take a turn round to the
estomalogical ambulance.'"

"The tomatological ambulance," corrected Barque.