"Non, but take me a snapshot of that little rump-end! Hey,
earth-worm!"

"And that one that has no ending! Talk about a sky-scratcher! Tiens,
la, he takes the biscuit. Yes, you take it, old chap!"

This man goes with little steps, and holds his pickax up in front
like a candle; his face is withered, and his body borne down by the
blows of lumbago.

"Like a penny, gran'pa?" Barque asks him, as he passes within reach
of a tap on the shoulder.

The broken-down poilu replies with a great oath of annoyance, and
provokes the harsh rejoinder of Barque: "Come now, you might be
polite, filthy-face, old muck-mill!"

Turning right round in fury, the old one defies his tormentor.

"Hullo!" cries Barque, laughing, "He's showing fight; the ruin! He's
warlike, look you, and he might be mischievous if only he were sixty
years younger!"

"And if he wasn't alone," wantonly adds Pepin, whose eye is
in quest of other targets among the flow of new arrivals.

The hollow chest of the last straggler appears, and then his
distorted back disappears.