Reymond growls out—
"The megatherium! He'll get himself killed!"
Bullets strike the ground all about us. I can think of nothing but my haversack and musette, my can and bayonet sheath which will insist on slipping between my legs. The ground is soft and slimy. I do my best to keep the barrel of my rifle clean. Take care the cartridge cases don't fly open! Crawling along in this fashion is no sinecure. Smoking distracts me, and so I keep my pipe between my teeth. My nose is almost poking into Reymond's heels. From his coat pocket slips a sketch-book. Recognizing its mauve cover, I pick it up, the result being that I am more embarrassed than ever in my anxiety not to lose it.
Reymond descends head foremost into a hole. I follow him.
"Look out, there's some one dead here."
"Take your sketch-book. You dropped it just now."
Evidently he is unnerved, for he answers—
"What the deuce do you expect me to do with that? You might have left it where it was."
The ungrateful fellow!