pulled out of the holes where they sleep--or even prone, their backs
on the ground, disturbed by passers-by, cursed at and cursing. Apart
from these fleeting insults and jests, they say nothing, the primary
and universal interest being but to swallow, with their mouths and
the circumference thereof as greasy as a rifle-breech. Contentment
is theirs.

At the earliest cessation of their jaw-bones' activity, they serve
up the most ribald of raillery. They knock each other about, and
clamor in riotous rivalry to have their say. One sees even Farfadet
smiling, the frail municipal clerk who in the early days kept
himself so decent and clean amongst us all that he was taken for a
foreigner or a convalescent. One sees the tomato-like mouth of
Lamuse dilate and divide, and his delight ooze out in tears.
Poterloo's face, like a pink peony, opens out wider and wider. Papa
Blaire's wrinkles flicker with frivolity as he stands up, pokes his
head forward, and gesticulates with the abbreviated body that serves
as a handle for his huge drooping mustache. Even the corrugations of
Cocon's poor little face are lighted up.

Becuwe goes in search of firewood to warm the coffee. While
we wait for our drink, we roll cigarettes and fill pipes. Pouches
are pulled out. Some of us have shop-acquired pouches in leather or
rubber, but they are a minority. Biquet extracts his tobacco from a
sock, of which the mouth is drawn tight with string. Most of the
others use the bags for anti-gas pads, made of some waterproof
material which is an excellent preservative of shag, be it coarse or
fine; and there are those who simply fumble for it in the bottom of
their greatcoat pockets.