“That, that’s a leather officer’s glove.  I cut the fingers off to stop up the mouth of my blunderbuss with; that, that’s telephone wire, the only thing to fasten buttons on your greatcoat with if you want ’em to stay there; and here, inside here, d’you know what that is?  White thread, good stuff, not what you’re put off with when they give you new things, a sort of macaroni au fromage that you pull out with a fork; and there’s a set of needles on a post-card.  The safety-pins, they’re there, separate.”

“And here, that’s the paper department.  Quite a library.”

There is indeed a surprising collection of papers among the things disgorged by Volpatte’s pockets—­the violet packet of writing-paper, whose unworthy printed envelope is out at heels; an Army squad-book, of which the dirty and desiccated binding, like the skin of an old tramp, has perished and shrunk all over:  a note-book with a chafed moleskin cover, and packed with papers and photographs, those of his wife and children enthroned in the middle.

Out of this bundle of yellowed and darkened papers Volpatte extracts this photograph and shows it to me once more.  I renew acquaintance with Madame Volpatte and her generous bosom, her mild and mellow features; and with the two little boys in white collars, the elder slender, the younger round as a ball.

“I’ve only got photos of old people,” says Biquet, who is twenty years old.  He shows us a portrait holding it close to the candle, of two aged people who look at us with the same well-behaved air as Volpatte’s children.

“I’ve got mine with me, too,” says another; “I always stick to the photo of the nestlings.”

“Course!  Every man carries his crowd along,” adds another.

“It’s funny,” Barque declares, “a portrait wears itself out just with being looked at.  You haven’t got to gape at it too often, or be too long about it; in the long run, I don’t know what happens, but the likeness mizzles.”

“You’re right,” says Blaire, “I’ve found it like that too, exactly.’’

“I’ve got a map of the district as well, among my papers,” Volpatte continues.  He unfolds it to the light.  Illegible and transparent at the creases, it looks like one of those window-blinds made of squares sewn together.

“I’ve some newspaper too”—­he unfolds a newspaper article upon poilus—­“and a book”—­a twopence-half-penny novel, called Twice a Maid—­“Tiens, another newspaper cutting from the Etampes Bee.  Don’t know why I’ve kept that, but there must be a reason somewhere.  I’ll think about it when I have time.  And then, my pack of cards, and a set of draughts, with a paper board and the pieces made of sealing-wax.”

Barque comes up, regards the scene, and says, “I’ve a lot more things than that in my pockets.”  He addresses himself to Volpatte.  “Have you got a Boche pay-book, louse-head, some phials of iodine, and a Browning?  I’ve all that, and two knives.”