"Stomatological," Bertrand amended.

"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!"