the ground a tail of ever-increasing dimensions. The cabinet reached,
tail and figure parted company; the former fell inert to the limitless
mud, the latter disappeared into the contrivance with a Jack-in-the-box
rapidity. From which contrivance the continuing ditty

"_le 'paradis est une maison...._"

--Or again, it's a lithe pausing poise, intensely intelligent, certainly
sensitive, delivering dryingly a series of sure and rapid hints that
penetrate the fabric of stupidity accurately and whisperingly; dealing
one after another brief and poignant instupidities, distinct and
uncompromising, crisp and altogether arrowlike. The poise has a cigarette
in its hand, which cigarette it has just pausingly rolled from material
furnished by a number of carefully saved butts (whereof Afrique's pockets
are invariably full). Its neither old nor young, but rather keen face
hoards a pair of greyish-blue witty eyes, which face and eyes are
directed upon us through the open door of a little room. Which little
room is in the rear of the _cuisine_; a little room filled with the
inexpressibly clean and soft odour of newly cut wood. Which wood we are
pretending to split and pile for kindling. As a matter of fact we are
enjoying Afrique's conversation, escaping from the bleak and profoundly
muddy _cour_, and (under the watchful auspices of the Cook, who plays
sentinel) drinking something approximating coffee with something
approximating sugar therein. All this because the Cook thinks we're
boches and being the Cook and a boche _lui-meme_ is consequently
peculiarly concerned for our welfare.

Afrique is talking about _les journaux_, and to what prodigious pains
they go to not tell the truth; or he is telling how a native stole up on
him in the night armed with a spear two metres long, once on a time in a