“Say, Dedouche. Do you think we’re Boche sausages that you want to smoke us out? Don’t you know anything? We’ll have to wear glasses. That’s no way to light a fire. What did you learn when you were a boy?” “The grease is full of water and won’t even burn.” “Use the oil in the lamp, then.” The first result of the immediate execution of this order was to fill the room with a black stifling cloud which was enough to make one weep. In the middle of this smoke the orderly, Dedouche, coughed, spat, sputtered, while I heard him storm: “In God’s name, how that stinks! How that stinks!” The quartermaster, doubtless on account of the smoke and the smell, now deigned to get up. He was a young man, large, light complexioned, and his checks were red and fat. He had just a suspicion of a moustache. His ears were hidden in a cap which had wings that pulled down. One could scarcely see his eyes they were so puffed out with sleep and smoke. “So you’re the intelligence officer? Sit down. Dedouche, make a cup of coffee. I’ll make a note of your transfer, and then you can try to find a place for yourself until the lieutenant comes. Oh, you’ve time, you know. He never comes before ten o’clock.” “But, Quartermaster, it’s nearly ten now.” “No, you’re joking. Ten o’clock. My word, it’s true. Oh, there, get up all of you. It’s ten o’clock. And that salaud of a Dedouche hasn’t lighted the fire. Come, come, hurry up, the lieutenant is coming!” And as though this were the magic word, the lieutenant came in, leaving the door wide open behind him. It was time; they were almost suffocated. The lieutenant was a large man, thin and well set up. His bearing indicated resolution. His brown hair was cut very short, according to the regulations. A close-cropped black moustache streaked his sunburned face. The general effect of his personality was that of a man cool and headstrong. “Oh, he has the coolness of a Colonial,” the machine gunners repeated _ad nauseam_. “Isn’t there any way to get you up?” exclaimed the lieutenant. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. It’s after ten o’clock.” Then he saw me through the cloud of smoke and questioned me with a glance. The quartermaster broke in before I could reply, “It’s the mounted intelligence officer, Lieutenant.” “Oh, good!... Good morning.... Welcome.” He extended a large, vigorous hand which confirmed the first impression of his personality—frankness and will. “Have you found a place for your horse?” he asked. “Not yet, Lieutenant. I’ve just come.”