There was a crack in the roof, from which drops were falling. A stream of water was soon trickling down.
Guillaumin came back. He had been to have a look at No. 1 platoon. There was schism in the Playoust "set." Hourcade and Descroix, it seemed, were still in possession of some "ruti" and a cheese. Descroix resigned himself to sharing it and favoured Playoust, but Hourcade turned a deaf ear. Little Humel would get nothing out of him—or the sergeant-major either. They neither of them demanded it, though they were both deadly white and worn out.
Guillaumin winked:
"If only we could find some way! I say, are you frightfully done up, to begin with?"
"Fit as a fiddle, I don't think! Why?"
"Look here."
He confided in me that he had interviewed the farmer's wife. There was not a village anywhere near, the nearest was nine miles away, and had been crammed with troops for the last week.
"Well?"
"But there was another farm much nearer, a rich one, quite hidden in the woods. Suppose we went to see?"