shells."

"And they will fire shrapnel at the poor bougres who have to put out the
fires," said the little man with the imperial.

"So they will, those knaves," croaked the dwarf in a voice entirely free
from any emotion. "That fire must be down on the Boulevard Ney," said
the bearded man.

"There is another beginning just to the right," said the Burgundian in
the tone of one retailing interesting but hardly useful information.

"There will be others," croaked the dwarf, who, leaning against the
cellar wall, was trying to roll a cigarette with big, square, fumbling
fingers. And looking at a big, gray-haired man in the hay, who had
turned over and was beginning to snore, he added: "Look at the new man.
He sleeps well, that fellow" (ce type la).

"He looks like a Breton," said the man with the imperial.

"An Auvergnat--an Auvergnat," replied the dwarf in a tone that was meant
to be final.

The soldier, who had just been sent down from Paris to take the place of
another recently invalided home, snored on, unconscious of our scrutiny.
The light from the fires outside cast a rosy glow on his weather-worn
features and sparse, silvery hair. His own curiosity stirred, the
corporal looked at his list.

"He came from Lyons," he announced. "His name is Alphonse Reboulet."

"I am glad he is not an Auvergnat," growled the dwarf. "We should have
all had fleas."

A shell burst very near, and a bitter odor of explosives came swirling
through the doorway. A fragment of the shell casing struck a window
above us, and a large piece of glass fell by the doorway and broke into
splinters. The first fire was dying down, but two others were burning
briskly. The soldiers waited for the end of the bombardment, as they
might have waited for the end of a thunderstorm.

"Tiens--here comes the shrapnel," exclaimed the Burgundian. And he
slammed the door swiftly.

A high, clear whistle cleaved the flame-lit sky, and about thirty small
shrapnel shells burst beyond us.

"They try to prevent any one putting out the fires," said the Burgundian
confidentially. "They get the range from the light of the flames."

Another dreadful rafale (volley) of shrapnel, at the rate of ten or
fifteen a minute, came speeding from the German lines.

"They are firing on the other house, now."

"Who puts out the fires?"

"The territorials who police and clean up the town. Some of them live
two doors below."

The Burgundian pointed down the garden to a