Volpatte staggers up to the group and throws down the black mass
that he had on his shoulder. "I've pulled it out of a dug-out where
it won't show much."
"We have wood," says Blaire, "but we've got to light it. Otherwise,
how are we going to cook this cab-horse?"
"It's a fine piece," wails a dark-faced man, "thin flank. In my
belief, that's the best bit of the beast, the flank."
"Fire?" Volpatte objects, "there are no more matches, no more
anything."
"We must have fire," growls Poupardin, whose indistinct bulk has the
proportions of a bear as he rolls and sways in the dark depths of
our cage.
"No two ways about it, we've got to have it," Pepin agrees.
He is coming out of a dug-out like a sweep out of a chimney. His
gray mass emerges and appears, like night upon evening.
"Don't worry; I shall get some," declares Blaire in a concentrated
tone of angry decision. He has not been cook long, and is keen to
show himself quite equal to adverse conditions in the exercise of
his functions.
He spoke as Martin Cesar used to speak when he was alive. His
aim is to resemble the great legendary figure of the cook who always
found ways for a fire, just as others, among the non-coms., would
fain imitate Napoleon.
"I shall go if it's necessary and fetch every bit of wood there is
at Battalion H.Q. I shall go and requisition the colonel's
matches--I shall go--"
"Let's go and forage." Poupardin leads the way. His face is like the
bottom of a saucepan that the fire has gradually befouled.
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