They made him a speech, they smacked each other on the back, they went into fits simply at the sight of him clicking his tongue or rolling his eyes.
I suddenly caught sight of someone coming towards me ... the brick red cheeks, the flat nose, the crisp hair, and full lips exposing the receding gums ... all these were familiar to me. The man was wearing a dirty grey suit. He held out his hairy paw to me.
"Halloa, my 'rooky'!"
The sound of his voice enabled me to place him.
"Bouillon!"
Eight years before, when I first joined, I had found him rejoicing in good conduct and efficiency badges, and acting as barrack-room orderly. The excellent fellow had at once taken me under his protection, and had seen me through the first three weeks, teaching me the rudiments of manual and platoon exercises. He was not a little proud of it. I was "his rooky." A little later on Bouillon had got into trouble. He had been led away by Lamalou, and mixed up in some night brawl, and had lost his stripes in consequence. When I rejoined the company I had been able, without causing him any humiliation to get him attached to me as bâtman and we had both congratulated ourselves on our understanding, he because I occasionally gave him a tip to supplement his weekly three francs, I because my kit was so well cared for, from that day onwards.
I had not seen him since. The joy of having found me again lit up his face.
He said insinuatingly:
"If only you could get me into your section?"
I promised to try and arrange the matter for him shortly.