"That ought to be mine, I swear, Tom."
"You've got the dent, Howe; what more do you want?"
"Damn hog."
Martin sat on the top step of the dugout, diving down whenever he heard a shell-shriek loudening in the distance. Beside him was a tall man with the crossed cannon of the artillery in his helmet, and a shrunken brown face with crimson-veined cheeks and very long silky black moustaches.
"A dirty business," he said. "It's idiotic.... Name of a dog!"
Grabbing each other's arms, they tumbled down the steps together as a shell passed overhead to burst in a tree down the road.
"Now look at that." The man held up his musette to Howe. "I've broken the bottle of Bordeaux I had in my musette. It's idiotic."
"Been on permission?"
"Don't I look it?"
They sat at the top of the steps again; the man took out bits of wet glass dripping red wine from his little bag, swearing all the while.