Pepin growls, rummages in his clothes, and pulls out a pinch
of tobacco, mixed with dust, which he hands to the sharpshooter.
A little farther they meet a sentry who is half asleep--in the
middle of the evening--on a heap of loose earth. The drowsy soldier
says, "It's to the right, and then again to the right, and then
straight forward. Don't go wrong about it."
They march--for a long time. "We must have come a long way," says
Volpatte, after half an hour of fruitless paces and encloistered
loneliness.
"I say, we're going downhill a hell of a lot, don't you think?" asks
Blaire.
"Don't worry, old duffer," scoffs Pepin, "but if you've got
cold feet you can leave us to it."
Still we tramp on in the falling night. The ever-empty trench--a
desert of terrible length--has taken a shabby and singular
appearance. The parapets are in ruins; earthslides have made the
ground undulate in hillocks.
An indefinite uneasiness lays hold of the four huge fire-hunters,
and increases as night overwhelms them in this monstrous road.
Pepin, who is leading just now, stands fast and holds up his
hand as a signal to halt. "Footsteps," they say in a sobered tone.
Then, and in the heart of them, they are afraid. It was a mistake
for them all to leave their shelter for so long. They are to blame.
And one never knows.
"Get in there, quick, quick!" says Pepin, pointing to a
right-angled cranny on the ground level.
By the test of a hand, the rectangular shadow is proved to be the
entry to a funk-hole.
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