This novel has created a tremendous sensation in France, where many well-known critics have proclaimed it greater than "Le Feu," Henri Barbusse's great war epic.
ck hands by rubbing them in his perspiring forehead.
They were hopping one behind the other, like a farandole, and laughing like urchins. The new chum followed at the tail, halting and tripping, holding on to Lagny by the hood. Sulphart, with his mouth dry as ashes, was the first to break away from the ring.
"Good lord, we're choking here! And that other joker who isn't coming back with the wine. So long as he doesn't let Morache grab him."
The thought of such a catastrophe halted the dancers.
"And now would be just the moment for a cherry drink," mourned Vairon.
"But someone else can go and buy more," said Demachy, producing two further notes. "I've laughed too much, I could do very well with a drink."
Respectfully or jealously, all the comrades looked on as the new chum opened his purse of fine leather, and Broucke was so overcome that he said, "Thank you," when he took the money.
Fouillard, who had forgotten all about his stew, had flung himself down on all