“Don’t be afraid. He knows me.”
He knows him so well that Burette had scarcely spoken than Coquet stopped short before the fence. Burette went over alone, head first, and landed in the vegetables. Fortunately, the ground is soft, but in hurdling the obstacle he bumped into some bushes, and gets an eye bruised and a cheek scratched.
“That’s nothing. That’s all right,” he says.
He remounts his horse, laughing and singing:
Ah! les p’tits pois, les p’tits pois,
C’est un légume très tendre.
He can appreciate them this time.
We meet Hémin, our comrade of the third company of machine guns, at Froissy. He came out at dawn with orders from his commandant and is going back to Morcourt, and we go along together.
Going from this bridge to that at Méricourt, the towpath is almost deserted. Hardly anything crosses our path except some English motor-cyclists.
Hémin is riding a superb charger, a great long-legged, bright chestnut, who carries his head proudly—a fine beast.