Just now, while he wields his figures like weapons, the
sharp ridges and angles and triangles that make up the paltry face
where perch the double discs of his glasses, are contracted with
vexation. He climbs to the firing-step (made in the days when this
was the first line), and raises his head angrily over the parapet.
The light touch of a little shaft of cold sunlight that lingers on
the land sets a-glitter both his glasses and the diamond that hangs
from his nose.
"And that Pepere, too, talk about a drinking-cup with
the bottom out! You'd never believe the weight of stuff he can let
drop on a single journey."
With his pipe in the corner, Papa Blaire fumes in two senses. You
can see his heavy mustache trembling. It is like a comb made of
bone, whitish and drooping.
"Do you want to know what I think? These dinner men, they're the
dirtiest dogs of all. It's 'Blast this' and 'Blast that'--John Blast
and Co., I call 'em."
"They have all the elements of a dunghill about them," says Eudore,
with a sigh of conviction. He is prone on the ground, with his mouth
half-open and the air of a martyr. With one fading eye he follows
the movements of Pepin, who prowls to and fro like a hyaena.
Their spiteful exasperation with the loiterers mounts higher and
higher. Tirloir the Grumbler takes the lead and expands. This is
where he comes in. With his little pointed gesticulations he goads
and spurs the anger all around him.
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