"Did you get the custards?" asked the barber's son in a squeaky voice.
"No, but I got a jelly once—only once!"
"Snob!" said the barber's son.
"Jelly! I could eat a hogshead of jelly and still be empty! What I want is fresh meat!" growled Pilzer, the butcher's son.
"A hogshead of jelly might be good to bathe in!" said the banker's son. "I haven't had a bath for a month."
"I have. I turned my underclothes inside out!" said the barber's son. He was aiming to take Hugo's place as humorist, in the confidence of one sprung from a talkative family.
Scanning the faces, the judge's son found many new ones—those of the older reservists—while many of the faces of barrack days were missing.
"Whom have we lost?" he asked.
The answer, given with dull matter-of-factness, revealed that, of the group that had talked so light-heartedly of war six weeks before, only little Peterkin, the valet's son, and Pilzer, the butcher's son, and the barber's and the banker's sons survived. They were sitting in a row, from the instinct that makes old associates keep together even though they continually quarrel. The striking thing was that Peterkin looked the most cheerful and well-kept of the four. As the proud possessor of a pair of scissors, he had trimmed a surprisingly heavy beard Van Dyck fashion, which emphasized his peaked features and a certain consciousness of superiority; while the barber's son sported only a few scraggly hairs. The scant, reddish product of Pilzer's cheeks, leaving bare the liver patch, only accentuated its repulsiveness and a savagery in his voice and look which was no longer latent under the conventional discipline of every-day existence. The company had not been in the first Engadir assault, but, being near the Engadir position, had suffered heavily in support.
"You were in the big attack night before last?" asked the judge's son.