...
I forget who, but someone--I think it was the little
Machine-Fixer--established the truth that an American was to leave the
next morning. That, moreover, said American's name was B.
Whereupon B. and I became extraordinarily busy.
The Zulu and Jean le Negre, upon learning that B. was among the _partis_,
came over to our beds and sat down without uttering a word. The former,
through a certain shy orchestration of silence, conveyed effortlessly and
perfectly his sorrow at the departure; the latter, by his bowed head and
a certain very delicate restraint manifested in the wholly exquisite
poise of his firm alert body, uttered at least a universe of grief.
The little Machine-Fixer was extremely indignant; not only that his
friend was going to a den of thieves and ruffians, but that his friend
was leaving in such company as that of _ce crapule_ (meaning Rockyfeller)
and _les deux mangeurs de blanc_ (to wit, The Trick Raincoat and The
Fighting Sheeney). "_c'est malheureux_," he repeated over and over,
wagging his poor little head in rage and despair--"it's no place for a
young man who has done no wrong, to be shut up with pimps and cutthroats,
_pour la duree de la guerre; le gouvernement francais a bien fait!_" and
he brushed a tear out of his eye with a desperate rapid brittle
gesture.
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