arrow in the form of a steel pencil and pointed like a needle; folding
scissors and a combined knife and fork of similar pliancy; a stump of
pencil and one of candle; a tube of aspirin, also containing opium
tablets, and several tin boxes.

Observing that my inspection of his personal possessions is detailed,
Volpatte helps me to identify certain items--

"That, that's a leather officer's glove. I cut the fingers off to stop
up the mouth of my blunderbuss with; that, that's telephone wire, the
only thing to fasten buttons on your greatcoat with if you want 'em to
stay there; and here, inside here, d'you know what that is? White
thread, good stuff, not what you're put off with when they give you new
things, a sort of macaroni au fromage that you pull out with a fork;
and there's a set of needles on a post-card. The safety-pins, they're
there, separate."

"And here, that's the paper department. Quite a library."

There is indeed a surprising collection of papers among the things
disgorged by Volpatte's pockets--the violet packet of writing-paper,
whose unworthy printed envelope is out at heels; an Army squad-book, of
which the dirty and desiccated binding, like the skin of an old tramp,
has perished and shrunk all over: a note-book with a chafed moleskin
cover, and packed with papers and photographs, those of his wife and
children enthroned in the middle.

Out of this bundle of yellowed and darkened papers Volpatte extracts
this photograph and shows it to me once more. I renew acquaintance with
Madame Volpatte and her generous bosom, her mild and mellow features;
and with the two little boys in white collars, the elder slender, the
younger round as a ball.

"I've only got photos of old people," says Biquet, who is twenty years
old. He shows us a portrait holding it close to the candle, of two aged
people who look at us with the same well-behaved air as Volpatte's
children.

"I've got mine with me, too," says another; "I always stick to the
photo of the nestlings."

"Course! Every man carries his crowd along," adds another.

"It's funny," Barque declares, "a portrait wears itself out just with
being looked at. You haven't got to gape at it too often, or be too
long about it; in the long run, I don't know what happens, but the
likeness mizzles."

"You're right," says Blaire, "I've found it like that too, exactly.''

"I've got a map of the district as well, among my papers," Volpatte
continues. He unfolds it t