His mouth is twisting in all
directions, by reason of a tablet of chocolate that he crunches and
chews, while he holds the moist stump of it in his fist.
With his mouth full, and wafting me the odor of a sweetshop, he
stammers--"Tell me, you writing chap, you'll be writing later about
soldiers, you'll be speaking of us, eh?"
"Why yes, sonny, I shall talk about you, and about the boys, and
about our life."
"Tell me, then"--he indicates with a nod the papers on which I have
been making notes. With hovering pencil I watch and listen to him.
He has a question to put to me--"Tell me, then, though you needn't
if you don't want--there's something I want to ask you. This is it;
if you make the common soldiers talk in your book, are you going to
make them talk like they do talk, or shall you put it all
straight--into pretty talk? It's about the big words that we use.
For after all, now, besides falling out sometimes and blackguarding
each other, you'll never hear two poilus open their heads for a
minute without saying and repeating things that the printers
wouldn't much like to print. Then what? If you don't say 'em, your
portrait won't be a lifelike one it's as if you were going to paint
them and then left out one of the gaudiest colors wherever you found
it. All the same, it isn't usually done."
"I shall put the big words in their place, dadda, for they're the
truth."
"But tell me, if you put 'em in, won't the people of your sort say
you're swine, without worrying about the truth?"
"Very likely, but I shall do it all the same, without worrying about
those people.
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