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You can starve or you can bankrupt, that's their gospel; 'You don't matter to me, I've got to make money!" "What do you want to be pasting the grocers for," Orango asked, "as long as they've always been like that? They're Messrs. Thief & Sons." After a silence, Rémus coughed, to encourage his voice, and said, "I'm a grocer." Then Margat said to him artlessly, "Well, what about it, old chap?
"Blood is what they want, blast 'em!" he bawled, angrily. "I've used Marengo Orango, there, or whatever you call him, all right, ain't I? I've let him do me! He knowed I was used to sea ways, and wa'n't used to land ways, and that he could do me. I lent him money, first off, because I liked you. And I've lent him money sence because I like a liar and he's a good one!
We stretched ourselves out, elbow to elbow. The one in the dark corner blew out his candle. "May the war look slippy and get finished!" mumbled Orango. "If only they'll let me transfer to the cyclists," Margat replied. We said no more, each forming that same great wandering prayer and some little prayer like Margat's.
"As long as it's not dropped here, you might say as one doesn't mind, eh, s'long as it's dropped somewhere else, eh?" At that moment a cloud of dirty smoke took shape five hundred yards away at the foot of the village, and a heavy detonation rolled up to where we were. "They're plugging the bottom of the village," Orango laconically certified.
He did not like the church, the singular shape of it, the steeple in that position instead of where it should have been. Orango and Rémus came and sat down by us in the ripening sun of evening. Far away we saw the explosion of a shell, like a white shrub. We chuckled at the harmless shot in the hazy distance and Rémus made a just observation.
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