They had given me a chunk of war-bread in place of blessing when I left Noyon. I bit into it with renewed might. But the divine man across from me immediately produced a sausage, half of which he laid simply upon my knee. The halving was done with a large keen poilu’s knife. 

 I have not tasted a sausage since. 

 The pigs on my either hand had by this time overcome their respective inertias and were chomping cheek-murdering chunks. They had quite a layout, a regular picnic-lunch elaborate enough for kings or even presidents. The v-f-g in particular annoyed me by uttering alternate chompings and belchings. All the time he ate he kept his eyes half-shut; and a mist overspread the sensual meadows of his coarse face. 

 His two reddish eyes rolled devouringly toward the blanket in its waterproof roll. After a huge gulp of wine he said thickly (for his huge moustache was crusted with saliva-tinted half-moistened shreds of food), “You will have no use for that machine là-bas. They are going to take everything away from you when you get there, you know. I could use it nicely. I have wanted such a piece of rubber for a great while, in order to make me a raincoat. Do you see?” (Gulp. Swallow.) 

 Here I had an inspiration. I would save the blanket-cover by drawing these brigands’ attention to myself. At the same time I would satisfy my inborn taste for the ridiculous. “Have you a pencil?” I said. “Because I am an artist in my own country, and will do your picture.” 

 He gave me a pencil. I don’t remember where the paper came from. I posed him in a pig-like position, and the picture made him chew his moustache. The apache thought it very droll. I should do his picture, too, at once. I did my best; though protesting that he was too beautiful for my pencil, which remark he countered by murmuring (as he screwed his moustache another notch), “Never mind, you will try.” Oh, yes, I would try all right, all right. He objected, I recall, to the nose. 

 By this time the divine “deserter” was writhing with joy. “If you please, Monsieur,” he whispered radiantly, “it would be too great an honor, but if you could—I should be overcome….” 

 Tears (for some strange reason) came into my eyes. 

 He handled his picture sacredly, criticised it with precision and care, finally bestowed it in his inner pocket. Then we drank. It happened that the train stopped and the apache was persuaded to go out and get 

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