"Very bad, very bad! The pimple is getting bigger."

It was true. The pimple had come to a head, and I wanted to prick
it.

Tricot, who had allowed us to cut into his chest without an
anaesthetic, exclaimed with tears:

"No, no more operations! I won't have any more operations."

All day long he lamented about his pimple, and the following night
he died.

"It was a bad pimple," said the orderly; "it was that which killed
him."

Alas! It was not a very "bad pimple," but no doubt it killed him.


V


Mehay was nearly killed, but he did not die; so no great harm was
done.

The bullet went through his helmet, and only touched the bone. The
brain is all right. So much the better.

No sooner had Mehay come to, and hiccoughed a little in memory of