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Updated: June 23, 2025
"Boudru going to shut eye?" said the fat infantry sergeant suggestively. "The cots are down and the beds unrolled," said the R.H.A. man falling into the diction of the barrack-room. "No," said Boudru. "You must tell me for the last time the story about the wicked German baby killer who was turned into a pig.
It must be some hundreds of years old." Colonel Arbuthnot took it in his hands and read this inscription on the blade: NIGEL DE GAMELYN ... ADSUM ... They were putting little Boudru to bed the R.H.A. and the Corps of Royal Engineers and Stansfield, the big fat Infantry Sergeant. His little sister, already tucked up in bed, was nearly asleep.
As a grey and wretched dawn came in with a cold and dispiriting rain there came to the ears of little Boudru the steady champing of marching feet in the street below. Slush, slush, slush went all those feet, beating the muddy road, and then the noise of metal on metal woke the silent village streets as the guns went by. "The soldiers!
It is sufficient to say that some minutes later the Hun prised the floor-boards up with his bayonet, and Boudru, from that moment, without warning, or leaving any trace, disappeared from the world. He returned in the fullness of time. And this was the way of it. For the hundredth time that day, the Hun had gone into the bedroom to look out of the bulgy bedroom window.
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