CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover]

THE

WAGES OF VIRTUE

BY

PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET

FIRST EDITION . . . November, 1916

Reprinted . . . . . December, 1916

Reprinted . . . . . May, 1917

Reprinted . . . . . September, 1917

Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1920

Reprinted (3/6) . . April, 1925

Reprinted . . . . . September, 1925

Reprinted (2/-) . . November, 1925

Reprinted (3/6) . . December, 1925

Reprinted . . . . . March, 1926

Reprinted (2/-) . . August, 1926

Reprinted (3/6) . . October, 1926

Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1927

Reprinted (3/6) . . March, 1927

Reprinted (2/-) . . March, 1927

Reprinted (2/-) . . June, 1927

Reprinted (3/6) . . June, 1927

Reprinted (2/-) . . February, 1928

Reprinted (3/6) . . May, 1928

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

BEAU GESTE

BEAU SABREUR

THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

STEPSONS OF FRANCE

THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD

FATHER GREGORY

DEW AND MILDEW

DRIFTWOOD SPARS

THE YOUNG STAGERS

_All rights reserved_

TO

THE CHARMINGEST WOMAN

CONTENTS

Prologue

I. Soap and Sir Montague Merline

II. A Barrack-Room of the Legion

III. Carmelita et Cie

IV. The Canteen of the Legion

V. The Trivial Round

VI. Le Cafard and Other Things

VII. The Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

VIII. The Temptation of Sir Montague Merline

IX. The Cafe and the Canteen

X. The Wages of Sin

XI. Greater Love...

Epilogue

"Vivandiere du regiment,

C'est Catin qu'on me nomme;

Je vends, je donne, je bois gaiment,

Mon vin et mon rogomme;

J'ai le pied leste et l'oeil mutin,

Tintin, tintin, tintin, r'lin tintin,

Soldats, voila Catin!

"Je fus chere a tous nos heros;

Helas! combien j'en pleure,

Ainsi soldats et generaux

Me comblaient a tout heure

D'amour, de gloire et de butin,

Tintin, tintin, tintin, r'lin tintin

D'amour, de gloire et de butin,

Soldats, voila Catin!"

BERANGER.

PROLOGUE

Lord Huntingten emerged from his little green tent, and strolled over to

where Captain Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, sat in the

"drawing-room." The drawing-room was the space under a cedar fir and

was furnished with four Roorkee chairs of green canvas and white wood,

and a waterproof ground-sheet.

"I do wish the Merlines would roll up," he said. "I want my dinner."

"Not dinner time yet," remarked Captain Strong. "Hungry?"

"No," answered Lord Huntingten almost snappishly. Captain Strong

smiled. How old Reggie Huntingten always gave himself away! It was the

safe return of Lady Merline that he wanted.

Captain Strong, although a soldier, the conditions of whose life were

almost those of perpetual Active Service, was a student--and

particularly a student of human nature. Throughout a life of great

activity he found, and made, much opportunity for sitting in the stalls

of the Theatre of Life and enjoying the Human Comedy. This East African

shooting-trip with Lord Huntingten, Sir Montague, and Lady Merline, was

affording him great entertainment, inasmuch as Huntingten had fallen in

love with Lady Merline and did not know it. Lady Merline was falling in

love with Huntingten and knew it only too well, and Merline loved them

both. That there would be no sort or kind of "denouement," in the

vulgar sense, Captain Strong was well and gladly aware--for Huntingten

was as honourable a man as ever lived, and Lady Merline just as

admirable. No saner, wiser, nor better woman had Strong ever met, nor

any as well balanced. Had there been any possibility of "developments,"

trouble, and the usual fiasco of scandal and the Divorce Court, he would

have taken an early opportunity of leaving the party and rejoining his

company at Mombasa. For Lord Huntingten was his school, Sandhurst and

lifelong friend, while Merline was his brother-in-arms and comrade of

many an unrecorded, nameless expedition, foray, skirmish, fight and

adventure.

"Merline shouldn't keep her out after dusk like this," continued Lord

Huntingten. "After all, Africa's Africa and a woman's a woman."

"And Merline's Merline," added Strong with a faint hint of reproof.

Lord Huntingten grunted, arose, and strode up and down. A fine

upstanding figure of a man in the exceedingly becoming garb of khaki

cord riding-breeches, well-cut high boots, brown flannel shirt and

broad-brimmed felt hat. Although his hands were small, the arms exposed

by the rolled-up shirtsleeves were those of a navvy, or a blacksmith.

The face, though tanned and wrinkled, was finely cut and undeniably

handsome, with its high-bridged nose, piercing blue eyes, fair silky

moustache and prominent chin. If, as we are sometimes informed,

impassivity and immobility of countenance are essential to aspirants for

such praise as is contained in the term "aristocratic," Lord Huntingten

was not what he himself would have described as a "starter," for never

did face more honestly portray feeling than did that of Lord Huntingten.

As a rule it was wreathed in smiles, and brightly reflected the joyous,

sunny nature of its owner. On those rare occasions when he was angered,

it was convulsed with rage, and, even before he spoke, all and sundry

were well aware that his lordship was angry. When he did speak, they

were confirmed in the belief without possibility of error. If he were

disappointed or chagrined this expressive countenance fell with such

suddenness and celerity that the fact of so great a fall being inaudible

came as a surprise to the observant witness. At that moment, as he

consulted his watch, the face of this big, generous and lovable man was

only too indicative of the fact that his soul was filled with anxiety,

resentment and annoyance. Captain Strong, watching him with malicious

affection, was reminded of a petulant baby and again of a big naughty

boy who, having been stood in the corner for half an hour, firmly

believes that the half-hour has long ago expired. Yes, he promised

himself much quiet and subtle amusement, interest and instruction from

the study of his friends and their actions and reactions during the

coming weeks. What would Huntingten do when he realised his condition

and position? Run for his life, or grin and bear it? If the former,

where would he go? If, living in Mayfair and falling in love with your

neighbour's wife, the correct thing is to go and shoot lions in East

Africa, is it, conversely, the correct thing to go and live in Mayfair

if, shooting lions in East Africa, you fall in love with your

neighbour's wife? Captain Strong smiled at his whimsicality, and showed

his interesting face at its best. A favourite remark of his was to the

effect that the world's a queer place, and life a queer, thing. It is

doubtful whether he realised exactly how queer an example of the fact

was afforded by his being a soldier in the first place, and an African

soldier in the second. When he was so obviously and completely cut out

for a philosopher and student (with relaxations in the direction of the

writing of Ibsenical-Pinerotic plays and Shavo-Wellsian novels), what

did he in that galley of strenuous living and strenuous dying? Further,

it is interesting to note that among those brave and hardy men, second

to none in keenness, resourcefulness and ability, Captain Strong was

noted for these qualities.

A huge Swahili orderly of the Queen's African Rifles, clad in a tall

yellow tarboosh, a very long blue jersey, khaki shorts, blue puttees and

hobnail boots, approached Captain Strong and saluted. He announced that

Merline _Bwana_ was approaching, and, on Strong's replying that such

things did happen, and even with sufficient frequency to render the

widest publication of the fact unnecessary, the man informed him that

the _macouba Bwana Simba_ (the big Lion Master) had given his bearer

orders to have the approach of Merline _Bwana_ signalled and announced.

Turning to Huntingten, Strong bade that agitated nobleman to be of good

cheer, for Merline was safe--his _askaris_ were safe--his pony was safe,

and it was even reported that all the dogs were safe.

"Three loud cheers," observed his lordship, as his face beamed ruddily,

"but, to tell you the truth, it was of _Lady_ Merline I was thinking....

You never know in Africa, you know...."

Captain Strong smiled.

Sir Montague and Lady Merline rode into camp on their Arab ponies a few

minutes later, and there was a bustle of Indian and Swahili "boys" and

bearers, about the unlacing of tents, preparing of hot baths, the taking

of ponies and guns, and the hurrying up of dinner.

While Sir Montague gave orders concerning the _enyama_[#] for the

_safari_ servants and porters, whose virtue had merited this addition to

their _posho_[#] Lady Merline entered the "drawing-room," and once again

gladdened the heart of Lord Huntingten with her grace and beauty. He

struck an attitude, laid his hand upon his heart, and swept the ground

with his slouch hat in a most gracefully executed bow. Lady Merline,

albeit clad in brief khaki shooting-costume, puttees, tiny hobnail

boots, and brown pith helmet, returned the compliment with a Court

curtsey.

[#] Meat.

[#] Food.

Their verbal greeting hardly sustained the dignity of the preliminaries.

"How's Bill the Lamb?" quoth the lady.

"How's Margarine?" was the reply.

Their eyes interested Captain Strong more than their words.

(Lady Merline's eyes were famous; and, beautiful as Strong had always

realised those wonderful orbs to be, he was strongly inclined to fancy

that they looked even deeper, even brighter, even more beautiful when

regarding the handsome sunny face of Lord Huntingten.)

Sir Montague Merline joined the group.

"Hallo, Bill! Hallo, Strong!" he remarked. "I say, Strong, what's

_marodi_, and what's _gisi_ in Somali?"

"Same as _tembo_ and _mbogo_ in Swahili," was the reply.

"Oh! Elephant and buffalo. Well, that one-eyed Somali blighter with

the corrugated forehead, whom Abdul brought in, says there are

both--close to Bamania over there--about thirteen miles you know."

"He's a liar then," replied Captain Strong.

"Swears the elephants went on the tiles all night in a _shamba_[#]

there, the day before yesterday."

[#] Garden. Cultivation.

"Might go that way, anyhow," put in Lord Huntingten. "Take him with us,

and rub his nose in it if there's nothing."

"You're nothing if not lucid, Bill," said Lady Merline. "I'm off to

change," and added as she turned away, "I vote we go to Bamania anyhow.

There may be lemons, or mangoes, or bananas or something in the

_shamba_, if there are no elephants or buffaloes."

"Don't imagine you are going upsetting elephants and teasing buffaloes,

young woman," cried "Bill" after her as she went to her tent. "The

elephants and buffaloes of these parts are the kind that eat English

women, and feeding the animals is forbidden...."

It occurred to Captain Strong, that silent and observant man, that Lady

Merline's amusement at this typical specimen of the Huntingten humour

was possibly greater than it would have been had he or her husband

perpetrated it.

"Dinner in twenty minutes, Monty," said he to Sir Montague Merline and

departed to his tent.

"I say, Old Thing, dear," observed Lord Huntingten to the same

gentleman, as, with the tip of his little finger, he "wangled" a

soda-water bottle with a view to concocting a whiskey-and-soda. "We

won't let Marguerite have anything to do with elephant or buffalo, will

we?"

"Good Lord, no!" was the reply. "We've promised her one pot at a lion

if we can possibly oblige, but that will have to be her limit, and,

what's more, you and I will be one each side of her when she does it."

"Yes," agreed the other, and added, "Expect I shall know what nerves

are, when it comes off, too."

"Fancy 'nerves' and the _Bwana Simba_," laughed Sir Montague Merline as

he held out his glass for the soda.... "Here's to Marguerite's first

lion," he continued, and the two men solemnly drank the toast.

Sir Montague Merline struck a match for his pipe, the light illuminating

his face in the darkness which had fallen in the last few minutes. The

first impression one gathered from the face of Captain Sir Montague

Merline, of the Queen's African Rifles, was one of unusual gentleness

and kindliness. Without being in any way a weak face, it was an

essentially friendly and amiable one--a soldierly face without any hint

of that fierce, harsh and ruthless expression which is apparently

cultivated as part of their stock-in-trade by the professional soldiers

of militarist nations. A physiognomist, observing him, would not be

surprised to learn of quixotic actions and a reputation for being "such

an awful good chap--one of the best-hearted fellers that ever helped a

lame dog over a stile." So far as such a thing can be said of any

strong and honest man who does his duty, it could be said of Sir

Montague Merline that he had no enemies. Contrary to the dictum that

"He who has no enemies has no friends" was the fact that Sir Montague

Merline's friends were all who knew him. Of these, his best and closest

friend was his wife, and it had been reserved for Lord Huntingten

unconsciously to apprise her of the fact that she was this and nothing

more. Until he had left his yacht at Mombasa a few weeks before, on the

invitation of Captain Strong (issued with their cordial consent) to join

their projected shooting trip, Lady Merline had fondly imagined that she

knew what love was, and had thought herself a thoroughly happy and

contented woman. In a few days after his joining the party it seemed

that she must have loved him all her life, and that there could not

possibly be a gulf of some fifteen years between then and the childish

days when he was "Bill the Lamb" and she the unconsidered adjunct of the

nursery and schoolroom, generally addressed as "Margarine." Why had he

gone wandering about the world all these years? Why had their

re-discovery of each other had to be postponed until now? Why couldn't

he have been at home when Monty came wooing and ... When Lady Merline's

thoughts reached this point she resolutely switched them off. She was

doing a considerable amount of switching off, these last few days, and

realised that when Lord Huntingten awoke to the fact that he too must

practise this exercise, the shooting trip would have to come to an

untimely end. As she crouched over the tiny candle-lit mirror on the

_soi-disant_ dressing-table in her tent, while hastily changing for

dinner that evening, she even considered plausible ways and possible

means of terminating the trip when the inevitable day arrived.

She was saved the trouble.

As they sat at dinner a few minutes later, beneath the diamond-studded

velvet of the African sky--an excellent dinner of clear soup, sardines,

bustard, venison, and tinned fruit--Strong's orderly again appeared in

the near distance, saluting and holding two official letters in his

hand. These, it appeared, had just been brought by messenger from the

railway-station some nineteen miles distant.

Captain Strong was the first to gather their import, and his feeling of

annoyance and disappointment was more due to the fact of the

interruption of his interesting little drama than to the cancellation of

his leave and return to harness.

"Battle, Murder and Sudden Death!" he murmured. "I wish people wouldn't

kill people, and cause other people to interfere with the arrangements

of people.... Our trip's bust."

"What is it?" asked Lady Merline.

"Mutiny and murder down Uganda way," replied her husband, whose letter

was a duplicate. "I'm sorry, Huntingten, old chap," he added, turning

to his friend. "It's draw stumps and hop it, for Strong and me. We

must get to the railway to-morrow--there will be a train through in the

afternoon.... Better luck next time."

Lord Huntingten looked at Lady Merline, and Lady Merline looked at her

plate.

2

Down the narrowest of narrow jungle-paths marched a small party of the

Queen's African Rifles. They marched, perforce, in single file, and at

their head was their white officer. A wiser man would have marched in

the middle, for the leading man was inevitably bound to "get it" if they

came upon the enemy, and, albeit brave and warlike men, negroes of the

Queen's African Rifles (like other troops) fight better when commanded

by an officer. A "point" of a sergeant and two or three men, a couple

of hundred yards in front, is all very well, but the wily foe in ambush

knows quite enough to take, as it were, the cash and let the credit

go--to let the "point" march on, and to wait for the main body.

Captain Sir Montague Merline was well aware of the unwisdom and military

inadvisability of heading the long file, but did it, nevertheless. If

called upon to defend his conduct, he would have said that what was

gained by the alleged wiser course was more than lost, inasmuch as the

confidence of the men in so discreet a leader would not be, to say the

least of it, enhanced. The little column moved silently and slowly

through the horrible place, a stinking swamp, the atmosphere almost

unbreatheable, the narrow winding track almost untreadable, the

enclosing walls of densest jungle utterly unpenetrable--a singularly

undesirable spot in which to be attacked by a cunning and blood-thirsty

foe of whom this was the "native heath."

Good job the beggars did not run to machine guns, thought Captain

Merline; fancy one, well placed and concealed in one of these huge

trees, and commanding the track. Stake-pits, poisoned arrows,

spiked-log booby-traps, and poisoned needle-pointed snags neatly placed

to catch bare knees, and their various other little tricks were quite

enough to go on with. What a rotten place for an ambush! The beggars

could easily have made a neat clearing a foot or two from the track, and

massed a hundred men whose poisoned arrows, guns, and rifles could be

presented a few inches from the breasts of passing enemies, without the

least fear of discovery. Precautions against that sort of thing were

utterly impossible if one were to advance at a higher speed than a mile

a day. The only possible way of ensuring against flank attack was to

have half the column out in the jungle with axes, hacking their way in

line, ahead of the remainder. They couldn't do a mile a day at that

rate. That "point" in front was no earthly good, nor would it have been

if joined by Daniel Boone Burnham and Buffalo Bill. The jungle on

either side might as well have been a thirty-foot brick wall. Unless the

enemy chose to squat in the middle of the track, what could the "point"

do in the way of warning?--and the enemy wouldn't do that. Of course,

an opposing column might be marching toward them along the same path,

but, in that case, except at a sudden bend, the column would see them as

soon as the "point." Confound all bush fighting--messy, chancy work.

Anyhow, he'd have ten minutes' halt and send Ibrahim up a tree for a

look round.

Captain Merline put his hand to the breast pocket of his khaki flannel

shirt for his whistle, with a faint short blast on which he would signal

to his "point" to halt. The whistle never reached his lips. A sudden

ragged crash of musketry rang out from the dense vegetation on either

side, and from surrounding trees which commanded and enfiladed the path.

More than half the little force fell at the first discharge, for it is

hard to miss a man with a Snider or a Martini-Henry rifle at three

yards' range. For a moment there was confusion, and more than one of

those soldiers of the Queen, it must be admitted, fired off his rifle at

nothing in particular. A burly sergeant, bringing up the rear, thrust

his way to the front shouting an order, and the survivors of the first

murderous burst of fire crouched down on either side of the track and

endeavoured to force their way into the jungle, form a line on either

side, and fire volleys to their left, front and right. Having made his

way to the head of the column, Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub found his officer

shot through the head, chest and thigh.... A glance was sufficient.

With a loud click of his tongue he turned away with a look of murderous

hate on his ebony face and the lust of slaughter in his rolling yellow

eye. He saw a leafy twig fall from a tree that overhung the path and

crouched motionless, staring at the spot. Suddenly he raised his rifle

and fired, and gave a hoarse shout of glee as a body fell crashing to

the ground. In the same second his tarboosh was spun from his head and

the shoulder of his blue jersey torn as by an invisible claw. He too

wriggled into the undergrowth and joined the volley-firing, which,

sustained long enough and sufficiently generously and impartially

distributed, must assuredly damage a neighbouring foe and hinder his

approach. Equally assuredly it must, however, lead to exhaustion of

ammunition, and when the volley-firing slackened and died away, it was

for this reason. Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub was a man of brains and

resource, as well as of dash and courage. Since the enemy had fallen

silent too, he would emerge with his men and collect the ammunition from

their dead and wounded comrades. He blew a number of short shrill

blasts on the whistle which, with the stripes upon his arm, was the

proudest of his possessions.

The ammunition was quickly collected and the worthy Sergeant possessed

himself of his dead officer's revolver and cartridges.... The next

step? ... If he attempted to remove his wounded, his whole effective

force would become stretcher-bearers and still be inadequate to the

task. If he abandoned his wounded, should he advance or retire? He

would rather fight a lion or three Masai than have to answer these

conundrums and shoulder these responsibilities.... He was relieved of

all necessity in the matter of deciding, for the brooding silence was

again suddenly broken by ear-piercing and blood-curdling howls and a

second sudden fusillade, as, at some given signal, the enemy burst into

the track both before and behind the column. Obviously they were

skilfully handled and by one versed in the art of jungle war. The

survivors of the little force were completely surrounded--and the rest

was rather a massacre than a fight. It is useless to endeavour to dive

into dense jungle to form a firing line when a determined person with a

broad-bladed spear is literally at your heels. Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub

did his utmost and fought like the lion-hearted warrior he was. It is

some satisfaction to know that the one man who escaped and made his way

to the temporary base of the little columns to tell the story of the

destruction of this particular force, was Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub.

One month later a Lieutenant was promoted to Captain Sir Montague

Merline's post, and, twelve months later, Lord Huntingten married his

wife.

Captain Strong of the Queen's African Rifles, home on furlough, was best

man at the wedding of the handsome and popular Lord Huntingten with the

charming and beautiful Lady Merline.

3

At about the same time as the fashionable London press announced to a

more or less interested world the more or less important news that Lady

Huntingten had presented her lord and master with a son and heir, a

small _safari_ swung into a tiny African village and came to a halt.

The naked Kavarondo porters flung down their loads with grunts and

duckings, and sat them down, a huddled mass of smelly humanity. From a

litter, borne in the middle of the caravan, stepped the leader of the

party, one Doctor John Williams, a great (though unknown) surgeon, a

medical missionary who gave his life and unusual talents, skill and

knowledge to the alleviation of the miseries of black humanity. There

are people who have a lot to say about missionaries in Africa, and there

are people who have nothing to say about Dr. John Williams because words

fail them. They have seen him at work and know what his life is--and

also what it might be if he chose to set up in Harley Street.

Doctor John Williams looked around at the village to which Fate brought

him for the first time, and beheld the usual scene--a collection of huts

built of poles and grass, and a few superior dwelling-places with

thatched walls and roofs. A couple of women were pounding grain in a

wooden mortar; a small group of others was engaged in a kind of rude

basket weaving under the porch of a big hut; a man seated by a small

fire had apparently "taken up" poker work, for he was decorating a

vase-shaped gourd by means of a red-hot iron; a gang of tiny naked

piccaninnies, with incredibly distended stomachs, was playing around

a...

_What?_

Dr. John Williams strode over to the spot. A white man, or the ruin of

a sort of a white man, was seated on a native stool and leaning against

the bole of one of the towering palms that embowered, shaded, concealed

and enriched the little village. His hair was very long and grey, his

beard and moustache were long and grey, his face was burnt and bronzed,

his eyes blue and bright. On his head were the deplorable ruins of a

khaki helmet, and, for the rest, he wore the rags and remains of a pair

of khaki shorts. Dr. John Williams stood and stared at him in

open-mouthed astonishment. He arose and advanced with extended hand.

The doctor was too astounded to speak, and the other could not, for he

was dumb. In a minute it was obvious to the new-comer that he was

more--that he was in some way "wanting."

From the headman of the villagers, who quickly gathered round, he

learned that the white man had been with them for "many nights and days

and seasons," that he was afflicted of the gods, very wise, and as a

little child. Why "very wise" Dr. John Williams failed to discover, or

anything more of the man's history, save that he had simply walked into

the village from nowhere in particular and had sat under that tree, all

day, ever since. They had given him a hut, milk, corn, cocoanut, and

whatever else they had. Also, in addition to this propitiation, they

had made a minor god of him, with worship of the milder sorts. Their

wisdom and virtue in this particular had been rewarded by him with a

period of marked prosperity; and undoubtedly their crops, their cattle,

and their married women had benefited by his benevolent presence....

When Doctor John Williams resumed his journey he took the dumb white man

with him, and, in due course, reached his own mission, dispensary and

wonderful little hospital a few months later. Had he considered that

there was any urgency in the case, and the time-factor of any

importance, he would have abandoned his sleeping-sickness tour, and gone

direct to the hospital to operate upon the skull of his foundling. For

this great (and unknown) surgeon, upon examination, had decided that the

removal of a bullet which was lodged beneath the scalp and in the solid

bone of the top of the man's head was the first, and probably last, step

in the direction of the restoration of speech and understanding.

Obviously he was in no pain, and he was not mad, but his brain was that

of a child whose age was equal to the time which had elapsed since the

wound was caused. Probably this had happened about a couple of years

ago, for the brain was about equal to that of a two-year-old child. But

why had the child not learned to talk? Possibly the fact that he had

lived among negroes, since his last return to consciousness, would

account for the fact. Had he been shot in the head and recovered among

English people (if he were English) he would probably be now talking as

fluently as a two-year-old baby....

The first few days after his return to his headquarters were always

exceedingly busy ones for the doctor. The number of things able to "go

wrong" in his absence was incredible, and, as he was the only white man

resident in a district some ten thousand square miles in area, the

accumulation of work and trouble was sufficient to appal most people.

But work and trouble were what the good doctor sought and throve on....

One piece of good news there was, however, in the tale of calamities. A

pencilled note, scribbled on a leaf of a military pocket-book, informed

him that his old friend Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, had

passed through his village three weeks earlier, and would again pass

through, on his return, in a week's time. Having made a wide detour to

see his friend, Strong was very disappointed to learn of his absence,

and would return by the same devious route, in the hope of better

luck....

Good! A few days of Strong's company would be worth a lot. A visit

from any white man was something; from a man of one's own class and kind

was a great thing; but from worldly-wise, widely-read, clever old

Strong! ... Excellent! ...

4

Captain Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, passed from the strong

sunlight into the dark coolness of Doctor John Williams' bungalow side

by side with his host, who was still shaking him by the hand, in his joy

and affection. Laying his riding-whip and helmet on a table he glanced

round, stared, turned as white as a sunburnt man may, ejaculated "Oh, my

God!" and seized the doctor's arm. His mouth hung open, his eyes were

starting from his head, and it was with shaking hand that he pointed to

where, in the doctor's living-room, sat the dumb and weak-witted

foundling.

Doctor Williams was astounded and mightily interested.

"What's up, Strong?" he asked.

"B--b--b--but he's _dead_!" stammered Strong with a gasp.

"Not a bit of it, man," was the reply, "he's as alive as you or I. He's

dumb, and he's dotty, but he's alive all right.... What's wrong with

you? You've got a touch of the sun..." and then Captain Strong was

himself again. If Captain Sir Montague Merline, late of the Queen's

African Rifles, were alive, it should not be Jack Strong who would

announce the fact....

_Monty Merline?_ ... Was that vacant-looking person who was rising from

a chair and bowing to him, his old pal Merline? ... Most undoubtedly it

was. Besides--there on his wrist and forearm was the

wonderfully-tattooed snake....

"How do you do?" he said. The other bowed again, smiled stupidly, and

fumbled with the buttons of his coat.... Balmy! ...

Strong turned and dragged his host out of the room.

"Where's he come from?" he asked quickly. "Who is he?"

"Where he came from last," replied the doctor, "is a village called, I

believe, Bwogo, about a hundred and twenty miles south-east of here.

How he got there I can't tell you. The natives said he just walked up

unaccompanied, unbounded, unpursued. He's got a bullet or something in

the top of his head and I'm going to lug it out. And then, my boy, with

any luck at all, he'll very soon be able to answer you any question you

like to put him. Speech and memory will return at the moment the

pressure on the brain ceases."

"Will he remember up to the time the bullet hit him, or since, or both?"

asked Strong.

"All his life, up to the moment the bullet hit him, certainly," was the

reply. "What happened since will, at first, be remembered as a dream,

probably. If I had to prophesy I should say he'd take up his life from

the second in which the bullet hit him, and think, for the moment, that

he is still where it happened. By-and-by, he'll realise that there's a

gap somewhere, and gradually he'll be able to fill it in with events

which will seem half nightmare, half real."

"Anyhow, he'll be certain of his identity and personal history and so

forth?" asked Strong.

"Absolutely," said the surgeon. "It will be precisely as though he

awoke from an ordinary night's rest.... It'll be awfully interesting to

hear him give an account of himself.... All this, of course, if he

doesn't die under the operation."

"I hope he will," said Strong.

"What _do_ you mean, my dear chap?"

"I hope he'll die under the operation."

"Why?"

"He'll be better dead.... And it will be better for three other people

that he should be dead.... Is he likely to die?"

"I should say it's ten to one he'll pull through all right.... What's

it all about, Strong?"

"Look here, old chap," was the earnest reply. "If it were anybody else

but you I shouldn't know what to say or do. As it's _you_, my course is

clear, for you're the last thing in discretion, wisdom and

understanding.... But don't ask me his name.... I know him.... Look

here, it's like this. His wife's married again.... There's a kid....

They're well known in Society.... Awful business.... Ghastly

scandal.... Shockin' position." Captain Strong took Doctor John

Williams by the arm. "Look here, old chap," he said once again. "Need

you do this? It isn't as though he was 'conscious,' so to speak, and in

pain."

"Yes, I must do it," replied the doctor without hesitation, as the other

paused.

"But why?" urged Strong. "I'm absolutely certain that if M----,

er--that is--this chap--could have his faculties for a minute he would

tell you not to do it.... You'll take him from a sort of negative

happiness to the most positive and acute unhappiness, and you'll simply

blast the lives of his wife and the most excellent chap she's

married.... She waited a year after this chap 'died' in--er--that last

Polar expedition--as was supposed.... Think of the poor little kid

too.... And there's estates and a ti---- so on...."

"No good, Strong. My duty in the matter is perfectly clear, and it is

to the sick man, as such."

"Well, you'll do a damned cruel thing ... er--sorry, old chap, I mean

_do_ think it over a bit and look at it from the point of view of the

unfortunate lady, the second husband, and the child.... And of the chap

himself.... By God! He won't thank you."

"I look at it from the point of view of the doctor and I'm not out for

thanks," was the reply.

"Is that your last word, Williams?"

"It is. I have here a man mentally maimed, mangled and suffering. My

first and only duty is to heal him, and I shall do it."

"Right O!" replied Strong, who knew that further words would be useless.

He knew that his friend's intelligence was clear as crystal and his will

as firm, and that he accepted no other guide than his own conscience....

As the three men sat in the moonlight that night, after dinner, Captain

Strong was an uncomfortable man. That tragedy must find a place in the

human comedy he was well aware. It had its uses like the comic

relief--but for human tragedy, undilute, black, harsh, and dreadful, he

had no taste. He shivered. The pretty little comedy of Lord Huntingten

and Sir Montague and Lady Merline, of two years ago, had greatly amused

and deeply interested him. This tragedy of the same three people was

unmitigated horror.... Poor Lady Merline! He conjured up her beautiful

face with the wonderful eyes, the rose-leaf complexion, the glorious

hair, the tender, lovely mouth--and saw the life and beauty wiped from

it as she read, or heard, the ghastly news ... bigamy ...

illegitimacy....

The doctor's "bearer" came to take the patient to bed. He was a

remarkable man who had started life as a ward-boy in Madras. He it was

who had cut the half-witted white man's hair, shaved his beard and

dressed him in his master's spare clothes. When the patient was asleep

that night, he was going to endeavour to shave the top of his head

without waking him, for he was to be operated on, in the morning....

"Yes, I fully understand and I give you my solemn promise, Strong," said

the doctor as the two men rose to go in, that night. "The moment the

man is sane I will tell him that he is not to tell me his name, nor

anything else until he has heard what I have to say. I will then break

it to him--using my own discretion as to how and when--that he was

reported dead, that his will was proved, that his widow wore mourning

for a year and then married again, and had a son a year later.... I

undertake that he shall not leave this house, _knowing that_, unless he

is in the fullest possession of his faculties and able to realise with

the utmost clearness _all_ the bearings of the case and _all_ the

consequences following his resumption of identity. And I'll let him hide

here for just as long as he cares to conceal himself--if he wishes to

remain 'dead' for a time."

"Yes ... And as I can't possibly stay till he recovers, nor, in fact,

over to-morrow without gross dereliction of duty, I will leave a letter

for you to give him at the earliest safe moment.... I'll tell him that

I am the only living soul who knows his name as well as his secret.

He'll understand that no one else will know this--from me."

As he sat on the side of his bed that night, Captain Strong remarked

unto his soul, "Well--one thing--if I know Monty Merline as well as I

think, 'Sir Montague Merline' died two years ago, whatever happens....

And yet I can't imagine Monty committing suicide, somehow. He's a chap

with a conscience as well as the soul of chivalry.... Poor, poor, old

Monty Merline!..."

THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

CHAPTER I

SOAP AND SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE

Sir Montague Merline, second-class private soldier of the First

Battalion of the Foreign Legion of France, paused to straighten his

back, to pass his bronzed forearm across his white forehead, and to put

his scrap of soap into his mouth--the only safe receptacle for the

precious morsel, the tiny cake issued once a month by Madame La

Republique to the Legionary for all his washing purposes. When one's

income is precisely one halfpenny a day (paid when it has totalled up to

the sum of twopence halfpenny), one does not waste much, nor risk the

loss of valuable property; and to lay a piece of soap upon the concrete

of _Le Cercle d'Enfer_ reservoir, is not so much to risk the loss of it

as to lose it, when one is surrounded by gentlemen of the Foreign

Legion. Let me not be misunderstood, nor supposed to be casting

aspersions upon the said gentlemen, but their need for soap is urgent,

their income is one halfpenny a day, and soap is of the things with

which one may "decorate oneself" without contravening the law of the

Legion. To steal is to steal, mark you (and to deserve, and probably to

get, a bayonet through the offending hand, pinning it to the bench or

table), but to borrow certain specified articles permanently and without

permission is merely, in the curious slang of the Legion, "to decorate

oneself."

Contrary to what the uninitiated might suppose, _Le Cercle d'Enfer_--the

Circle of Hell--is not a dry, but a very wet place, it being, in point

of fact, the _lavabo_ where the Legionaries of the French Foreign Legion

stationed in Algeria at Sidi-bel-Abbes, daily wash their white fatigue

uniforms and occasionally their underclothing.

Oh, that _Cercle d'Enfer_! I hated it more than I hated the _peloton

des hommes punis, salle de police, cellules_, the "Breakfast of the

Legion," the awful heat, monotony, flies, Bedouins; the solitude,

hunger, and thirst of outpost stations in the south; I hated it more

than I hated _astiquage_, _la boite_, the _chaussettes russes_,

hospital, the terrible desert marches, sewer-cleaning fatigues, or that

villainous and vindictive ruffian of a _cafard_-smitten _caporal_ who

systematically did his very able best to kill me. Oh, that accursed

_Cercle d'Enfer_, and the heart-breaking labour of washing a filthy

alfa-fibre suit (stained perhaps with rifle-oil) in cold water, and

without soap!

Only the other day, as I lay somnolent in a long chair in the verandah

of the Charmingest Woman (she lives in India), I heard the regular

_flop, flop, flop_ of wet clothes, beaten by a distant _dhobi_ upon a

slab of stone, and at the same moment I smelt wet concrete as the _mali_

watered the maidenhair fern on the steps leading from Her verandah to

the garden. Odours call up memories far more distinctly and readily

than do other sense-impressions, and the faint smell of wet concrete,

aided as it was by the faintly audible sound of wet blows, brought most

vividly before my mind's eye a detailed picture of that well-named

Temple of Hygiea, the "Circle of Hell." Sleeping, waking, and partly

sleeping, partly waking, I saw it all again; saw Sir Montague Merline,

who called himself John Bull; saw Hiram Cyrus Milton, known as The

Bucking Bronco; saw "Reginald Rupert"; the infamous Luigi Rivoli; the

unspeakable Edouard Malvin; the marvellous Mad Grasshopper, whose name

no one knew; the truly religious Hans Djoolte; the Russian twins,

calling themselves Mikhail and Feodor Kyrilovitch Malekov; the terrible

Sergeant-Major Suicide-Maker, and all the rest of them. And finally,

waking with an actual and perceptible taste of soap in my mouth, I

wished my worst enemy were in the _Cercle d'Enfer_, soapless, and with

much rifle-oil, dust, leather marks and wine stains on his once-white

uniform--and then I thought of Carmelita and determined to write this

book.

For Carmelita deserves a monument (and so does John Bull), however

humble.... To continue....

Sir Montague Merline did not put his precious morsel of soap into his

pocket, for the excellent reason that there was no pocket to the single

exiguous garment he was at the moment wearing--a useful piece of

material which in its time played many parts, and knew the service of

duster, towel, turban, tablecloth, polishing pad, tea-cloth,

house-flannel, apron, handkerchief, neckerchief, curtain, serviette,

holder, fly-slayer, water-strainer, punkah, and, at the moment, nether

garment. Having _cached_ his soup and having observed "_Peste!_" as he

savoured its flavour, he proceeded to pommel, punch, and slap upon the

concrete, the greyish-white tunic and breeches, and the cotton vest and

shirt which he had generously soaped before the hungry eyes of numerous

soapless but oathful fellow-labourers, who less successfully sought that

virtue which, in the Legion, is certainly next to, but far ahead of,

mere godliness.

In due course, Sir Montague Merline rinsed his garments in the

reservoir, wrung them out, bore them to the nearest clothes-line, hung

them out to dry, and sat himself down in their shadow to stare at them

unwaveringly until dried by the fierce sun--the ancient enemy, for the

moment an unwilling friend. To watch them unwaveringly and intently

because he knew that the turning of his head for ten seconds might mean

their complete and final disappearance--for, like soap, articles of

uniform are on the list of things with which a Legionary may "decorate"

himself, if he can, without incurring the odium of public opinion. (He

may steal any article of equipment, clothing, kit, accoutrement, or

general utility, but his patron saint help him and Le Bon Dieu be

merciful to him, if he be caught stealing tobacco, wine, food, or

money.)

Becoming aware of the presence of Monsieur le Legionnaire Edouard

Malvin, Sir Montague Merline increased the vigilance of his scrutiny of

his pendent property, for ce cher Edouard was of pick-pockets the very

prince and magician; of those who could steal the teeth from a Jew while

he sneezed and would steal the scalp from their grandmamma while she

objected.

"Ohe! Jean Boule, lend me thy soap," besought this stout and dapper

little Austrian, who for some reason pretended to be a Belgian from the

Congo. "This cursed alfa-fibre gets dirtier the more you wash it in this

cursed water," and he smiled a greasy and ingratiating grin.

Without for one second averting his steady stare from his clothes, the

Englishman slowly removed the soap from his mouth, expectorated,

remarked "_Peaudezebie_,"[#] and took no further notice of the quaint

figure which stood by his side, clad only in ancient red Zouave breeches

and the ingratiating smile.

[#] An emphatic negative.

"Name of a Name! Name of the Name of a Pipe! Name of the Name of a

Dirty Little Furry Red Monkey!" observed Monsieur le Legionnaire Edouard

Malvin as he turned to slouch away, twirling the dripping grey-white

tunic.

"Meaning me?" asked Sir Montague, replacing the soap in its safe

repository and preparing to rise.

"But no! But not in the least, old cabbage. Thou hast the _cafard_.

Mais oui, tu as le cafard," replied the Belgian and quickened his

retreat.

No, the grey Jean Boule, so old, so young, doyen of Legionnaires, so

quick, strong, skilful and enduring at _la boxe_, was not the man to

cross at any time, and least of all when he had _le cafard_, that

terrible Legion madness that all Legionaries know; the madness that

drives them to the cells, to gaol, to the Zephyrs, to the firing-party

by the open grave; or to desertion and death in the desert. The grey

Jean Boule had been a Zephyr of the Penal Battalions once, already, for

killing a man, and Monsieur Malvin, although a Legionary of the Foreign

Legion, did not wish to die. No, not while Carmelita and Madame la

Cantiniere lived and loved and sold the good Algiers wine at

three-halfpence a bottle.... No, bon sang de sort!

M. le Legionnaire Malvin returned to the dense ring of labouring

perspiring washers, and edged in behind a gigantic German and a short,

broad, burly Alsatian, capitalists as joint proprietors of a fine cake

of soap.

Sacre nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de sort! Dull-witted German pigs

might leave their soap unguarded for a moment, and, if they did not,

might be induced to wring some soapy water from their little pile of

washing, upon the obstinately greasy tunic of the good M. Malvin.

Legionnaire Hans Schnitzel, late of Berlin, rinsed his washing in clean

water, wrung it, and took it to the nearest drying line. Legionnaire

Alphonse Dupont, late of Alsace, placed his soap in the pocket of the

dirty white fatigue-uniform which he wore, and which he would wash as

soon as he had finished the present job. Immediately, Legionnaire

Edouard Malvin transferred the soap from the side pocket of the tunic of

the unconscious Legionnaire Alphonse Dupont to that of his own red

breeches, and straightway begged the loan of it.

"_Merde!_" replied Dupont. "Nombril de Belzebutt! I will lend it thee

_peaudezebie_. Why should I lend thee soap, _vieux degoulant_? Go

decorate thyself, _sale cochon_. Besides 'tis not mine to lend."

"And that is very true," agreed M. Malvin, and sauntered toward

Schnitzel, who stood phlegmatically guarding his drying clothes. In his

hand was an object which caused the eyebrows of the good M. Malvin to

arch and rise, and his mouth to water--nothing less than an actual, real

and genuine scrubbing-brush, beautiful in its bristliness. Then

righteous anger filled his soul.

"Saligaud!" he hissed. "These pigs of filthy Germans! Soap _and_ a

brush. Sacripants! Ils me degoutant a la fin."

As he regarded the stolid German with increasing envy, hatred, malice

and all uncharitableness, and cast about in his quick and cunning mind

for means of relieving him of the coveted brush, a sudden roar of wrath

and grief from his Alsatian partner, Dupont, sent Schnitzel running to

join that unfortunate man in fierce and impartial denunciations of his

left-hand and right-hand neighbours, who were thieves, pigs, brigands,

dogs, Arabs, and utterly _merdant_ and _merdable_. Bursting into the

fray, Herr Schnitzel found them, in addition, _bloedsinnig_ and

_dummkopf_ in that they could not produce cakes of soap from empty

mouths.

As the rage of the bereaved warriors increased, more and more Pomeranian

and Alsatian patois invaded the wonderful Legion-French, a French which

is not of Paris, nor of anywhere else in the world save La Legion. As

Dupont fell upon a laughing Italian with a cry of "Ah! zut! Sacre

grimacier," Schnitzel spluttered and roared at a huge slow-moving

American who regarded him with a look of pitying but not unkindly

contempt....

"Why do the 'eathen rage furious _to_gether and _im_agine a vain thing?"

he enquired in a slow drawl of the excited "furriner," adding "Ain't yew

some _schafs-kopf_, sonny!" and, as the big German began to whirl his

arms in the windmill fashion peculiar to the non-boxing foreigner who

meditates assault and battery, continued--

"Now yew stop _zanking_ and playing _versteckens_ with me, yew pie-faced

Squarehead, and be _schnell_ about it, or yew'll git my goat, see?

_Vous obtiendrez mon chevre_, yew perambulating _prachtvoll bierhatte_,"

and he coolly turned his back upon the infuriated German with a polite,

if laborious, "Guten tag, mein Freund."

Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton (late of Texas, California, the Yukon, and the

"main drag" generally of the wild and woolly West) was exceeding proud

of his linguistic knowledge and skill. It may be remarked, en passant,

that his friends were even prouder of it.

At this moment, le bon Legionnaire Malvin, hovering for opportunity,

with a sudden _coup de savate_ struck the so-desirable scrubbing-brush

from the hand of Herr Schnitzel with a force that seemed like to take

the arm from the shoulder with it. Leaping round with a yell of pain,

the unfortunate German found himself, as Malvin had calculated, face to

face with the mighty Luigi Rivoli, to attack whom was to be brought to

death's door through that of the hospital.

Snatching up the brush which was behind Schnitzel when he turned to face

Rivoli, le bon M. Malvin lightly departed from the vulgar scuffle in the

direction of the drying clothes of Herren Schnitzel and Dupont, the

latter, last seen clasping, with more enthusiasm than love, a wiry

Italian to his bosom. The luck of M. Malvin was distinctly in, for not

only had he the soap and a brush for the easy cleansing of his own

uniform, but he had within his grasp a fresh uniform to wear, and

another to sell; for the clothing of ce bon Dupont would fit him to a

marvel, while that of the pig-dog Schnitzel would fetch good money, the

equivalent of several litres of the thick, red Algerian wine, from a

certain Spanish Jew, old Haroun Mendoza, of the Sidi-bel-Abbes ghetto.

Yes, the Saints bless and reward the good Dupont for being of the same

size as M. Malvin himself, for it is a most serious matter to be short

of anything when showing-down kit at kit-inspection, and that thrice

accursed Sacre Chien of an _Adjudant_ would, as likely as not, have

spare white trousers shown-down on the morrow. What can a good

Legionnaire do, look you, when he has not the article named for

to-morrow's _Adjutant's_ inspection, but "decorate himself"? Is it

easy, is it reasonable, to buy new white fatigue-uniform on an income of

one halfpenny per diem? Sapristi, and Sacre Bleu, and Name of the Name

of a Little Brown Dog, a litre of wine costs a penny, and a packet of

tobacco three-halfpence, and what is left to a gentleman of the Legion

then, on pay-day, out of his twopence-halfpenny, nom d'un petard? As for

ce bon Dupont, he must in his turn "decorate" himself. And if he

cannot, but must renew acquaintance with _la boite_ and _le peloton des

hommes punis_, why--he must regard things in their true light, be

philosophical, and take it easy. Is it not proverbial that "Toutes

choses peut on souffrir qu'aise"? And with a purr of pleasure, a

positive licking of chops, and a murmur of "Ah! Au tient frais," he

deftly whipped the property of the embattled Legionaries from the line,

no man saying him nay. For it is not the etiquette of the Legion to

interfere with one who, in the absence of its owner, would "decorate"

himself with any of those things with which self-decoration is

permissible, if not honourable. Indeed, to Sir Montague Merline,

sitting close by, and regarding his proceedings with cold impartial eye,

M. Malvin observed--

"'Y a de bon, mon salop! I have heard that le bon Dieu helps those who

help themselves. I do but help myself in order to give le bon Dieu the

opportunity He doubtless desires. I decorate myself incidentally. Mais

oui, and I shall decorate myself this evening with a p'tite ouvriere and

to-morrow with une reputation d'ivrogne," and he turned innocently to

saunter with his innocent bundle of washing from the _lavabo_, to his

_caserne_. Ere he had taken half a dozen steps, the cold and quiet

voice of the grey Jean Boule broke in upon the resumed day-dreams of the

innocently sauntering M. Malvin.

"Might one aspire to the honour of venturing to detain for a brief

interview Monsieur le Legionnaire Edouard Malvin?" said the soft

metallic voice.

"But certainly, and without charge, mon gars," replied that gentleman,

turning and eyeing the incomprehensible and dangerous Jean Boule, _a

coin de l'oeil_.

"You seek soap?"

"I do," replied the Austrian "Belgian" promptly. The possession of one

cake of soap makes that of another no less desirable.

"Do you seek sorrow also?"

"But no, dear friend. 'J'ai eu toutes les folies.' In this world I

seek but wine, woman, and peace. Let me avoid the 'gros bonnets' and

lead my happy tumble life in peaceful obscurity. A modest violet, I. A

wayside flow'ret, a retiring primrose, such as you English love."

"Then, cher Malvin, since you seek soap and not sorrow, let not my

little cake of soap disappear from beneath the polishing-rags in my

sack. The little brown sack at the head of my cot, cher Malvin. Enfin!

I appoint you guardian and custodian of my little cake of soap. But in

a most evil hour for le bon M. Malvin would it disappear. Guard it

then, cher Malvin. Respect it. Watch over it as you value, and would

retain, your health and beauty, M. Malvin. And when _I_ have avenged

_my_ little piece of soap, the true history of the last ten minutes will

deeply interest those earnest searchers after truth, Legionaries

Schnitzel and Dupont. Depart in peace and enter upon your new office of

Guardian of my Soap! Vous devez en etre joliment fier."

"Quite a speech, in effect, mon drole," replied the stout Austrian as he

doubtfully fingered his short beard _au poincon_, and added uneasily, "I

am not the only gentleman who 'decorates' himself with soap."

"No? Nor with uniforms. Go in peace, Protector of my Soap."

And smiling wintrily M. Malvin winked, broke into the wholly deplorable

ditty of "Pere Dupanloup en chemin de fer," and pursued his innocent

path to barracks, whither Sir Montague Merline later followed him, after

watching with a contemptuous smile some mixed and messy fighting (beside

the apparently dead body of the Legionary Schnitzel) between an Alsatian

and an Italian, in which the Italian kicked his opponent in the stomach

and partly ate his ear, and the Alsatian used his hands solely for

purpose of throttling.

Why couldn't they stand up and fight like gentlemen under Queensberry

rules, or, if boxing did not appeal to them, use their sword-bayonets

like soldiers and Legionaries--the low rooters, the vulgar,

rough-and-tumble gutter-scrappers....

Removing his almost dry washing from the line, Sir Montague Merline

marched across to his barrack-block, climbed the three flights of stone

stairs, traversed the long corridor of his Company, and entered the big,

light, airy room wherein he and twenty-nine other Legionaries (one of

whom held the very exalted and important rank of _Caporal_) lived and

moved and had their monotonous being.

Spreading his tunic and breeches on the end of the long table he

proceeded to "iron" them, first with his hand, secondly with a tin

plate, and finally with the edge of his "quart," the drinking-mug which

hung at the head of his bed ready for the reception of the early morning

_jus_, the strong coffee which most effectively rouses the Legionary

from somnolence and most ineffectively sustains him until midday.

Anon, having persuaded himself that the result of his labours was

satisfactory, and up to Legion standards of smartness--which are as high

as those of the ordinary _piou-piou_ of the French line are low--he

folded his uniform in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths, placed it with the

_paquetage_ on the shelf above his bed, and began to dress for his

evening walk-out. The Legionary's time is, in theory, his own after 5

p.m., and the most sacred plank in the most sacred platform of all his

sacred tradition is his right to promenade himself at eventide and

listen to the Legion's glorious band in the Place Sadi Carnot.

Having laid his uniform, belt, bayonet, and kepi on his cot, he stepped

across to the next but one (the name-card at the head of which bore the

astonishing legend "Bucking Bronco, No. 11356. Soldat 1ere Classe),

opened a little sack which hung at the head of it, and took from it the

remains of an ancient nail-brush, the joint property of Sir Montague

Merline, alias Jean Boule, and Hiram Cyrus Milton, alias Bucking Bronco,

late of Texas, California, Yukon, and "the main drag" of the United

States of America.

Even as Sir Montague's hand was inserted through the neck of the sack,

the huge American (who had been wrongfully accused and rashly attacked

by Legionary Hans Schnitzel) entered the barrack-room, caught sight of a

figure bending over his rag-sack, and crept on tiptoe towards it, his

great gnarled fists clenched, his mouth compressed to a straight thin

line beneath his huge drooping moustache, and his grey eyes ablaze.

Luckily Sir Montague heard the sounds of his stealthy approach, and

turned just in time. The American dropped his fists and smiled.

"Say," he drawled, "I thought it was some herring-gutted weevil of a

Dago or a Squarehead shenannikin with my precious jools. An' I was jest

a'goin' ter plug the skinnamalink some. Say, Johnnie, if yew hadn't

swivelled any, I was jest a'goin' ter slug yew, good an' plenty, behind

the yeer-'ole."

"Just getting the tooth-nail-button-boot-dandy-brush, Buck," replied Sir

Montague. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feelin' purty mean," was the reply. "A dirty Squarehead of a

dod-gasted Dutchy from the Farterland grunted in me eye, an' I thought

the shave-tail was fer rough-housin', an' I slugged him one, just ter

start 'im gwine. The gosh-dinged piker jest curled up. He jest wilted

on the floor."

The Bucking Bronco, in high disgust, expectorated and then chid himself

for forgetting that he was no longer on the free soil of America, where

a gentleman may spit as he likes and be a gentleman for a' that and a'

that.

"I tell yew, Johnnie," he continued, "he got me jingled, the lumberin'

lallapaloozer! There he lay _an'_ lay--and then some. 'Git up, yew

rubberin' rube,' I ses, 'yew'll git moss on your teeth if yew lie so

quiet; git up, an' deliver the goods,' I ses, 'I had more guts then yew

when I was knee high to a June bug.' Did he arise an' make good? _I_

should worry. Nope. Yew take it from Uncle, that bonehead is there yit,

an' afore I could make him wise to it thet he didn't git the bulge on

Uncle with _thet_ bluff, another Squarehead an' a gibberin' Dago put up

a dirty kind o' scrap over his body, gougin' and kickin' an' earbitin'

an' throttlin', an' a whole bunch o' boobs jined in an' I give it up an'

come 'ome." And the Bucking Bronco sat him sadly on his bed and

groaned.

"Cheer up, Buck, we'll all soon be dead," replied his comrade, "don't

_you_ go getting cafard," and he looked anxiously at the

angry-lugubrious face of his friend. "What's the _ordre du jour_ for

walking-out dress to-day?" he added. "Blue tunic and red trousers? Or

tunic and white? Or _capote_, or what?"

"It was tunic an' white yesterday," replied the American, "an' I guess

it is to-day too."

"It's my night to howl," he added cryptically "Let's go an' pow-wow

Carmelita ef thet fresh gorilla Loojey Rivoli ain't got 'er in 'is

pocket. I'll shoot 'im up some day, sure...."

A sudden shouting, tumult, and running below, and cries of "Les bleus!

Les bleus!" interrupted the Bronco's monologue and drew the two old

soldiers to a window that overlooked the vast, neat, gravelled

barrack-square, clean, naked, and bleak to the eye as an ice-floe.

"Strike me peculiar," remarked the Bucking Bronco. "It's another big

gang o' tenderfeet."

"A draft of rookies! Come on--they'll all be for our Company in place

of those _poumpists_,[#] and there may be something Anglo-Saxon among

them," said Legionary John Bull, and the two men hastily flung their

capotes over their sketchy attire and hurried from the room, buttoning

them as they went.

[#] Deserters.

Like Charity, the Legionary's overcoat covers a multitude of

sins--chiefly of omission--and is a most useful garment. It protects

him from the cold dawn wind, and keeps him warm by night; it protects

him from the cruel African sun, and keeps him cool by day, or at least,

if not cool, in the frying-pan degree of heat, which is better than that

of the fire. He marches in it without a tunic, and relies upon it to

conceal the fact when he has failed to "decorate" himself with

underclothing. Its skirts, buttoned back, hamper not his legs, and its

capacious pockets have many uses. Its one drawback is that, being

double-breasted, it buttons up on either side, a fact which has brought

the grey hairs of many an honest Legionary in sorrow to the cellules,

and given many a brutal and vindictive Sergeant the chance of that

cruelty in which his little tyrant soul so revels. For, incredible as

it may seem to the lay mind, the ingenious devil whose military mind

concocts the ordres du jour, changes, by solemn decree, and almost

daily, the side upon which the overcoat is to be buttoned up.

Clattering down the long flights of stone stairs, and converging across

the barrack-square, the Legionaries came running from all directions, to

gaze upon, to chaff, to delude, to sponge upon, and to rob and swindle

the "Blues"--the recruits of the _Legion Etrangere_, the embryo

_Legionnaires d'Afrique_.

In the incredibly maddeningly dull life of the Legion in peace time, the

slightest diversion is a god-send and even the arrival of a batch of

recruits a most welcome event. To all, it is a distraction; to some,

the hope of the arrival of a fellow-countryman (especially to the few

English, Americans, Danes, Greeks, Russians, Norwegians, Swedes, and

Poles whom cruel Fate has sent to La Legion). To some, a chance of

passing on a part of the brutality and tyranny which they themselves

suffer; to some, a chance of getting civilian clothes in which to

desert; to others, an opportunity of selling knowledge of the ropes, for

litres of canteen wine; to many, a hope of working a successful trick on

a bewildered recruit--the time-honoured villainy of stealing his new

uniform and pretending to buy him another _sub rosa_ from the dishonest

quartermaster, whereupon the recruit buys back his own original uniform

at the cost of his little all (for invariably the alleged

substitute-uniform costs just that sum of money which the poor wretch

has brought with him and augmented by the compulsory sale of his

civilian kit to the clothes-dealing harpies and thieves who infest the

barrack-gates on the arrival of each draft).

As the tiny portal beside the huge barrack-gate was closed and fastened

by the Corporal in charge of the squad of "blues" (as the French army

calls its recruits[#]), the single file of derelicts halted at the order

of the Sergeant of the Guard, who, more in sorrow than in anger, weighed

them and found them wanting.

[#] In the days of the high, tight stock and cravat, the recruit was

supposed to be livid and blue in the face until he grew accustomed to

them.

"Sweepings," he summed them up in passing judgment. "Foundlings.

Droppings. Crumbs. Tripe. Accidents. Abortions. Cripples. Left by

the tide. Blown in by the wind. Born pekins.[#] Only one man among

them, and he a pig of a Prussian--or perhaps an Englishman. Let us hope

he's an Englishman...."

[#] Civilians.

In speaking thus, the worthy Sergeant was behaving with impropriety and

contrary to the law and tradition of the Legion. What nouns and

adjectives a non-commissioned officer may use wherewith to stigmatise a

Legionary, depend wholly and solely upon his taste, fluency and

vocabulary. But it is not etiquette to reproach a man with his

nationality, however much a matter for reproach that nationality may be.

"Are you an Englishman, most miserable _bleu_?" he suddenly asked of a

tall, slim, fair youth, dressed in tweed Norfolk-jacket, and grey

flannel trousers, and bearing in every line of feature and form, and in

the cut and set of his expensive clothing, the stamp of the man of

breeding, birth and position.

"By the especial mercy and grace of God, I am an Englishman, Sergeant,

thank you," he replied coolly in good, if slow and careful French.

The Sergeant smiled grimly behind his big moustache. Himself a cashiered

Russian officer, and once a gentleman, he could appreciate a gentleman

and approve him in the strict privacy of his soul.

"_Slava Bogu!_" he roared. "Vile _bleu_! And now by the especial mercy

and grace of the Devil you are a Legionnaire--or will be, if you survive

the making...." and added _sotto voce_, "Are you a degraded dog of a

broken officer? If so, you can claim to be appointed to the _eleves

caporaux_ as a non-commissioned officer on probation, if you have a

photo of yourself in officer's uniform. Thus you will escape all

recruit-drill and live in hope to become, some day, Sergeant, even as

I," and the (for a Sergeant of the Legion) decent-hearted fellow smote

his vast chest.

"I thank you, Sergeant," was the drawled reply. "You really dazzle

me--but _I_ am not a degraded dog of a broken officer."

"_Gospodi pomilui!_" roared the incensed Sergeant. "Ne me donnez de la

gabatine, pratique!" and, for a second, seemed likely to strike the cool

and insolent recruit who dared to bandy words with a Sergeant of the

Legion. His eyes bulged, his moustache bristled, and his scarlet face

turned purple as he literally showed his teeth.

"Go easy, old chap," spoke a quiet voice, in English, close beside the

Englishman. "That fellow can do you to death if you offend him," and

the recruit, turning, beheld a grey-moustached, white-haired elderly

man, bronzed, lined, and worn-looking--a typical French army _vielle

moustache_--an "old sweat" from whose lips the accents of a refined

English gentleman came with the utmost incongruity.

The youth's face brightened with interest. Obviously this old dear was

a public-school, or 'Varsity man, or, very probably, an _ex_-British

officer.

"Good egg," quoth he, extending a hand behind him for a surreptitious

shake. "See you anon, what?"

"Yes, you'll all come to the Seventh Company. We are below strength,"

said Legionary John Bull, in whose weary eyes had shone a new light of

interest since they fell upon this compatriot of his own caste and

kidney.

A remarkably cool and nonchalant recruit--and surely unique in the

history of the Legion's "blues" in showing absolutely no sign of

privation, fear, stress, criminality, poverty, depression, anxiety, or

bewilderment!

"Now, what'n hell is he doin' in thet bum outfit?" queried the Bucking

Bronco of his friend John Bull, who kept as near as possible to the

Englishman whom he had warned against ill-timed causticity of humour.

"He's some b'y, thet b'y, but he'd better quit kickin'. He's a way-up

white man I opine. What's 'e a'doin' in this joint? He's a gay-cat and

a looker. He's a fierce stiff sport. He has sand, some--sure. Yep," and

Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton checked himself only just in time from defiling

the immaculate and sacred parade-ground, by "signifying in the usual

manner" that he was mentally perturbed, and himself in these

circumstances of expectoration-difficulty by observing that the boy was

undoubtedly "some" boy, and worthy to have been an American citizen had

he been born under a luckier star--or stripe.

"I can't place him, Buck," replied the puzzled John Bull, his quiet

voice rendered almost inaudible by the shouts, howls, yells and cries of

the seething mob of Legionaries who swarmed round the line of recruits,

assailing their bewildered ears in all the tongues of Europe, and some

of those of Asia and Africa.

"He doesn't look hungry, and he doesn't look hunted. I suppose he is

one of the few who don't come here to escape either starvation,

creditors, or the Law. And he doesn't look desperate like the average

turned-down lover, ruined gambler, deserted husband, or busted

bankrupt.... Wonder if he's come here in search of 'Romance'?"

"Wal, ef he's come hyar for his health an' amoosement he'd go to Hell to

cool himself, or ter the den of a grizzly b'ar fer gentle stimoolation

and recreation. Gee whiz! Didn't he fair git ole Bluebottle's goat? He

sure did git nixt him."

"Bit of a contrast to the rest of the gang, what?" remarked John Bull,

and indeed the truth of his remark was very obvious.

"Ain't they a outfit o' dodgasted hoboes an' bindlestiffs!" agreed his

friend.

Straight as a lance, thin, very broad in the shoulders and narrow of

waist and hip; apparently as clean and unruffled as when leaving his

golf-club pavilion for a round on the links; cool, self-possessed,

haughty, aristocratic and clean-cut of feature, this Englishman among

the other recruits looked like a Derby winner among a string of equine

ruins in a knacker's yard; like a panther among bears--a detached and

separated creature, something of different flesh and blood. Breed is a

very remarkable thing, even more distinctive than race, and in this

little band of derelicts was another Englishman, a Cockney youth who had

passed from street-arab and gutter-snipe, _via_ Reformatory, to

hooligan, coster and soldier. No man in that collection of wreckage

from Germany, Spain, Italy, France, and the four corners of Europe

looked less like the tall recruit than did this brother Englishman.

To Sir Montague Merline, fallen and shattered star of the high social

firmament, the sight of him was as welcome as water in the desert, and

he thanked Fate for having brought another Englishman to the Legion--and

one so debonair, so fine, so handsome, cool and strong.

"There's Blood there," he murmured to himself.

"His shoulders hev bin drilled somewheres, although he's British," added

the Bucking one. "Yep. He's one o' the flat-backed push."

"I wonder if he can be a cashiered officer. He's drilled as you say....

If he has been broke for something it hasn't marked him much. Nothing

hang-dog there," mused Legionary John Bull.

"Nope. He's a blowed-in-the-glass British aristocrat," agreed the

large-minded Hiram Cyrus, "and I opine an ex-member of the commishunned

ranks o' the British Constitootional Army. He ain't niver bin batterin'

the main-stem for light-pieces like them other hoodlums an' toughs an'

smoudges. Nope. He ain't never throwed his feet fer a two-bit

poke-out.... Look at that road-kid next 'im! Ain't he a peach? I

should smile! Wonder the medicine-man didn't turn down some o' them

chechaquos...."

And, truly, the draft contained some very queer odd lots. By the side

of the English gentleman stood a big fat German boy in knicker-bockers

and jersey, bare-legged and wearing a pair of button-boots that had

belonged to a woman in the days when they still possessed toe-caps.

Pale face, pale hair, and pale eyes, conspired to give him an air of

terror--the first seeming to have the hue of fright, the second to stand

_en brosse_ with fear, and the last to bulge like those of a hunted

animal.

Presumably M. le Medicin-Major must have been satisfied that the boy was

eighteen years of age, but, though tall and robust, he looked nearer

fifteen--an illusion strengthened, doubtless, by the knickerbockers,

bare calves, and button-boots. If he had enlisted in the Foreign Legion

to avoid service in the Fatherland, he had quitted the frying-pan for a

furnace seven times heated. Possibly he hoped to emulate Messieurs

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego. In point of fact, he was a deserter

(driven to the desperate step of fleeing across the French frontier by a

typical Prussian non-commissioned officer), and already wishing himself

once more _zwei jahriger_ in the happy Fatherland.

Already, to his German soul and stomach, the lager-bier of Munich, the

sausage, _zwieback_, and _kalte schnitzel_ of home, seemed things of the

dim and distant past, and unattainable future.

Next to him stood a gnarled and knotted Spaniard, whose face appeared to

be carven from his native mahogany, and whose ragged clothing--grimy,

oily, blackened--proclaimed him wharfside coal-heaver, dock-rat, and

longshoreman. What did he among the Legion's blues? Was it lack of

work, was it slow starvation? Or excess of temper and a quick blow with

a coal-shovel upon the head of an enemy in some Marseilles

coal-barge--that had brought him to Sidi-bel-Abbes in the sands of

Africa?

By his side slouched a dark-faced, blunt-featured Austrian youth, whose

evil-looking mouth was unfortunately in no wise concealed by a sparse

and straggling moustache, laboriously pinched into two gummed spikes,

and whose close-set eyes were not in harmony of focus. His dress

appeared to be that of a lower-class clerk, ill-fitting black cloth of

lamentable cut, the type of suit that, in its thousands, renders day

horrible in European and American cities, and is, alas, spreading to

many Asiatic. His linen was filthy, his crinkly hair full of dust, his

boots cracked and shapeless. He looked what he was--an absconding

Viennese tout who had had a very poor time of it. He proved to be a

highly objectionable and despicable scoundrel.

His left-hand neighbour was a weedy, olive-faced youth, wearing a velvet

tam-o'-shanter cap, and a brown corduroy suit, of which the baggy,

peg-top trousers fitted tightly at the ankles over pearl-buttoned

spring-side patent boots. He had long fluffy brown hair, long fluffy

brown beard, whiskers, and moustache! long filthy finger nails, and no

linen. Apparently a French student of the Sorbonne, or artist from The

Quarter, overwhelmed by some terrible cataclysm, some _affaire_ of the

heart, the pocket, or _l'honneur_.

Beside this gentleman, whose whole appearance was highly offensive to

the prejudiced insular eye of the Englishman, stood a typical

_Apache_--a horrible-looking creature whose appalling face showed the

cunning of the fox, the ferocity of the panther, the cruelty of the

wolf, the treachery of the bear, the hate of the serpent, and the rage

of the boar. Monsieur l'Apache had evidently chosen the Legion as a

preferable alternative to the hulks and the chain-gang--Algeria rather

than Noumea. He lived to doubt the wisdom of his choice.

Beside him, and evidently eyeing him askance, stood two youths as

extraordinarily similar as were ever twins in this world. Dark,

slightly "rat-faced," slender, but decidedly athletic looking.

"Cheer up, _golubtchik_! If one cannot get _vodka_ one must drink

_kvass_," whispered one.

"All right, Fedia," replied the other. "But I am so hungry and tired.

What wouldn't I give for some good hot tea and _blinni_!"

"We're bound to get something of some sort before long--though it won't

be _zakuska_. Don't give way on the very threshold now. It is our one

chance, or I would not have brought you here, Olichka."

"Ssh!" whispered back the other. "Don't call me that here, Feodor."

"Of course not, Mikhail, stout fellow," replied Feodor, and smote his

companion on the back.

Regarding them, sharp-eyed, stood the Cockney, an undersized,

narrow-chested, but wiry-looking person--a typical East End sparrow;

impudent, assertive, thoroughly self-reliant, tenacious, and courageous;

of the class that produces admirable specimens of the genus "Tommy."

In curious contrast to his look of _gamin_ alertness was that of his

neighbour, a most stolid, dull and heavy-looking Dutchman, whose sole

conversational effort was the grunt "_Verstaan nie_," whenever

addressed. Like every other member of the draft he appeared "to feel

his position" keenly, and distinctly to deplore it. Such expression as

his bovine face possessed, suggested that Algerian sun and sands

compared unfavourably with Dutch mists and polders, and the

barrack-square of the Legion with the fat and comfortable stern of a

Scheldt canal boat.

Square-headed, flat-faced Germans, gesticulating Alsatians and

Lorraines, fair Swiss, and Belgians, with a sprinkling of Italians,

swarthy Spaniards, Austrians and French, made up the remainder of the

party, men whose status, age, appearance, bearing, and origins were as

diverse as their nationalities levelled by a common desperate need (of

food, or sanctuary, or a fresh start in life), and united by a common

filthiness, squalor, and dejection--a gang powerless in the bonds of

hunger and fear, delivered bound into the relentless, grinding mills of

the Legion.

And thus, distinguished and apart, though in their midst, stood the

well-dressed Englishman, apparently calm, incurious, with equal mind;

his linen fresh, his face shaven, his clothing uncreased, his air rather

that of one who awaits the result of the footman's enquiry as to whether

Her Ladyship is "at home" to him.

More and more, the heart of Sir Montague Merline warmed to this young

man of his own race and class, with his square shoulders, flat back,

calm bearing, and hard high look. He approved and admired his air and

appearance of being a Man, a Gentleman, and a Soldier. Had he a son, it

was just such a youth as this he would have him be.

"Any 'Murricans thar?" suddenly bawled the Bucking Bronco.

"Nao," replied the Cockney youth, craning forward. "But I'm

Henglish--which is better any d'y in the week, ain't it?"

The eye of the large American travelled slowly and deliberately from the

crown of the head to the tip of the toe of the Cockney, and back. He

then said nothing--with some eloquence.

"Say, ma honey, yew talk U.S. any?" queried a gigantic Negro, in the

uniform of the Legion (presumably recruited in France as a free American

citizen of Anglo-Saxon speech), addressing himself to the tall

Englishman. "Youse ain't Dago, nor Dutchie, nor French. Cough it up,

Bo, right hyar ef youse U.S."

The eyes of the young Englishman narrowed slightly, and his naturally

haughty expression appeared to deepen toward one of contempt and

disgust. Otherwise he took no notice of the Negro, nor of his question.

Remarking, "Some poah white trash," the Negro turned to the next man

with the same query.

Cries in various tongues, such as "Anybody from Spain?" "Anyone from

Vienna?" "Any Switzers about?" and similar attempts by the crowding,

jostling Legionaries to discover a compatriot, and possibly a "towny,"

evoked gleams and glances of interest from the haggard, wretched eyes of

the "blues," and, occasionally, answering cries from their grim and

grimy lips.

A swaggering, strutting Sergeant emerged from the neighbouring

regimental offices, roared "_Garde a vous_," brought the recruits to

attention, and called the roll. As prophesied by Legionary John Bull,

the whole draft was assigned to the Seventh Company, recently depleted

by the desertion, en masse, of a _cafard_-smitten German _escouade_, or

section, who had gone "on pump," merely to die in the desert at the

hands of the Arabs--several horribly tortured, all horribly mangled.

Having called the roll, this Sergeant, not strictly following the

example of the Sergeant of the Guard, looked the draft over more in

anger than in sorrow.

"Oh, Name of the Name of Beautiful Beelzebub," bawled he, "but what have

we here? To _drill_ such worm-casts! Quel metier! Quel chien d'un

metier! Stand up, stand up, oh sons of Arab mothers and pariah dogs,"

and then, feigning sudden and unconquerable sickness, he turned upon the

Corporal in charge with a roar of--

"March these sacred pigs to their accursed sties."

As the heterogeneous gang stepped off at the word of command, "_En

avant. Marche!_" toward the Quartermaster's store of the Seventh

Company, it was clear to the experienced eye that the great majority

were "Back to the army again," and were either deserters, or men who had

already put in their military service in the armies of their own

countries.

In the store-room they were endowed by the _Fourrier-Sergent_, to the

accompaniment of torrential profanity, with white fatigue-uniforms,

night-caps, rough shirts, harsh towels, and scraps of soap. From the

store-room the squad was "personally conducted" by another, and even

more terrible, Sergeant to a washing-shed beyond the drill-ground, and

bidden to soap and scour itself, and then stand beneath the primitive

shower-baths until purged and clean as never before in its unspeakable

life.

As they neared the washing-shed, the bare idea of ablutions, or the idea

of bare ablutions, appeared to strike consternation, if not positive

terror, into the heart of at least one member of the squad, for the

young Russian who had been addressed by his twin as Mikhail suddenly

seized the other's arm and said with a gasp--

"Oh, Fedichka, how can I? Oh Fedia, Fedia, what shall I do?"

"We must trust in God, and use our wits, Olusha. I will..."

But a roar of "Silence, Oh Son of Seven Pigs," from the Sergeant, cut

him short as they reached the shed.

"Now strip and scrub your mangy skins, you dogs. Scrape your crawling

hides until the floor is thick in hog-bristles and earth, oh

Great-grandsons of Sacred Swine," he further adjured the wretched

"blues," with horrible threats and fearful oaths.

"Wash, you mud-caked vermin, wash, for the carcase of the Legionary must

be as spotless as the Fame of the Legion, or the honour of its smartest

Sergeant--Sergeant Legros," and he lapped his bulging chest lest any

Boeotian present should be ignorant of the identity of Sergeant Legros

of the Legion.

Walking up and down before the doorless stalls in which the naked

recruits washed, Sergeant Legros hurled taunts, gibes, insults, and

curses at his charges, stopping from time to time to give special

attention to anyone who had the misfortune to acquire his particular

regard. Pausing to stare at the tall Englishman in affected disgust at

the condition of his brilliant and glowing skin, he enquired--

"Is that a vest, disclosed by scrubbing and the action of water? Or is

it your hide, pig?" And was somewhat taken aback by the cool and

pleasant reply,

"No, that is not a new, pink silk vest that you see, Sergeant, it really

is my own skin--but many thanks for the kind compliment, none the less."

Sergeant Legros eyed the recruit with something dimly and distantly akin

to pity. Mad as a March hare, poor wretch, of course--it could not be

intentional impudence--and the Sergeant smiled austerely--he would

probably die in the cells ere long, if _le cafard_ did not send him to

the Zephyrs, the firing-platoon, or the Arabs. Mad to begin with! Ho!

Ho! What a jest!--and the Sergeant chuckled.

But what was this? Did the good Sergeant's eyes deceive him? Or was

there, in the next compartment, a lousy, lazy "blue" pretending to

cleanse his foul and sinful carcase without completely stripping? The

young Russian, Mikhail, standing with his back to the doorway, was

unenthusiastically washing the upper part of his body.

Sergeant Legros stiffened like a pointer, at the sight. Rank

disobedience! Flagrant defiance of orders, coupled with the laziest and

filthiest indifference to cleanliness! This vile "blue" would put the

Legion's clean shirt and canvas fatigue-suit on an indifferently washen

body, would he? Let him wait until he was a Legionary, and no longer a

recruit--and he should learn something of the powers of the Sergeant

Legros.

"Off with those trousers, thou mud-caked flea-bitten scum," he

thundered, and then received perhaps the greatest surprise of a

surprising life. For, ere the offending recruit could turn, or obey,

there danced forth from the next cubicle, with a wild whoop, his exact

double, who, naked as he was born, turned agile somersaults and

Catherine-wheels past the astounded Sergeant, down the front of the

bathing-shed, and round the corner.

"Sacre Nom de Nom de Bon Dieu-de-Dieu!" ejaculated Sergeant Legros, and

rubbed his eyes. He then displayed a sample of the mental quickness of

the trained Legionary in darting to the neighbouring corner of the

building instead of running down the entire front in the wake of the

vanished acrobat.

Dashing along the short side-wall, Sergeant Legros turned the corner and

beheld the errant lunatic approaching in the same literally

revolutionary manner.

On catching sight of the Sergeant, the naked recruit halted, and broke

into song and dance, the latter being of that peculiarly violent Cossack

variety which constrains the performer to crouch low to earth and fling

out his legs, alternately, straight before him.

For the first time in his life, words failed Sergeant Legros. For some

moments he could but stand over the dancer and gesticulate and stutter.

Rising to his feet with an engaging smile--.

"Ca va mieux, mon pere?" observed the latter amiably.

Seizing him by arm and neck, the apoplectic Sergeant Legros conducted

this weird disciple of Terpsichore back to his cubicle, while his mazed

mind fumbled in the treasure-house of his vocabulary, and the armoury of

his weapons of punishment.

Apparently there was method, however, in the madness of Feodor

Kyrilovitch Malekov, for a distinct look of relief and satisfaction

crossed his face as, in the midst of a little crowd of open-mouthed, and

half-clothed recruits, he caught sight of his brother in complete

fatigue-uniform.

Gradually, and very perceptibly the condition of Sergeant Legros

improved. His halting recriminations and imprecations became a steady

trickle, the trickle a flow, the flow a torrent, and the torrent an

overwhelming deluge. By the time he had almost exhausted his vocabulary

and himself, he began to see the humorous and interesting aspect of

finding two lunatics in one small draft. He would add them to his

collection of butts. Possibly one, or both of them, might even come to

equal the Mad Grasshopper in that role. Fancy more editions of La

Cigale--who had provided him with more amusement and opportunities for

brutality than any ten sane Legionaries!

"Now, do great and unmerited honour to your vile, low carcases by

putting on the fatigue-uniform of the Legion. Gather up your filthy

civilian rags, and hasten," he bawled.

And when the, now wondrously metamorphosed, recruits had all dressed in

the new canvas uniforms, they were marched to a small side gate in the

wall of the barrack-square, and ordered to sell immediately everything

they possessed in the shape of civilian clothing, including boots and

socks. Civilian clothing is essential to the would-be deserter, and La

Legion does not facilitate desertion.

That the unfortunate recruits got the one or two francs they did receive

was solely due to the absence of a "combine" among the scoundrelly

Arabs, Greeks, Spanish Jews, Negroes, and nondescript rogues who

struggled for the cast-off clothing. For the Englishman's expensive

suit a franc was offered, and competition advanced this price to four.

For the sum of five francs he had to sell clothes, hat, boots, collar,

tie, and underclothing that had recently cost him over fifty times as

much. That he felt annoyed, and that, in spite of his apparent

nonchalance, his temper was wearing thin, was evidenced by the fact that

a big Arab who laid a grimy paw upon his shoulder and snatched at his

bundle, received the swift blow of dissuasion--a sudden straight-left in

the eye, sending him flying--to the amusement and approval of the sentry

whose difficult and arduous task it was to keep the scrambling, yelling

thieves of old-clo' dealers from invading the barrack-square, and

repentant recruits from quitting it.

When the swindle of the forced sale was complete, and several poor

wretches had parted with their all for a few _sous_, the gate was shut

and the weary squad marched to the offices of the Seventh Company that

each man's name and profession might be entered in the Company Roll, and

that he might receive his _matricule_ number, the number which would

henceforth hide his identity, and save him the trouble of retaining a

personality and a name.

To Colour-Sergeant Blanc, the tall English youth, like most Legionaries,

gave a _nom d'emprunt_, two of his own names, Reginald Rupert. He

concealed his surname and sullied the crystal truth of fact by stating

that his father was the Commander-in-Chief of the Horse Marines of Great

Britain and Inspector-General of the Royal Naval Horse Artillery; that

he himself was by profession a wild-rabbit-tamer, and by conviction a

Plymouth Rock--all of which was duly and solemnly entered in the great

tome by M. Blanc, a man taciturn, _tres boutonne_, and of no

imagination.

Whatever the recruit may choose to say is written down in the Company

lists, and should a recruit wax a little humorous, why--the Legion will

very soon cure him of any tendency to humour. The Legion asks no

questions, answers none, takes the recruit at his own valuation, and

quickly readjusts it for him. Reconducted to the Store-room of the

Seventh Company, the batch of recruits, again to the accompaniment of a

fusillade of imprecations, and beneath a torrential deluge of insults

and oaths, was violently tailored by a number of non-commissioned

officers, and a fatigue-party of Legionnaires.

To "Reginald Rupert," at any rate, the badges of rank worn by the

non-commissioned officers were mysterious and confusing--as he noted a

man with one chevron giving peremptory orders in loud tone and bullying

manner to a man who wore two chevrons. It also puzzled him that the fat

man, who was evidently the senior official present, was addressed by the

others as "_chef_," as though he were a cook. By the time he was fitted

out with kit and accoutrement, he had decided that the "chef" (who wore

two gold chevrons) was a Sergeant-Major, that the men wearing one gold

chevron were Sergeants, and that those wearing two red ones were

Corporals; and herein he was entirely correct.

Every man had to fit (rather than be fitted with) a red kepi having a

brass grenade in front; a double-breasted, dark blue tunic with red

facings and green-fringed red epaulettes; a big blue greatcoat, or

_capote_; baggy red breeches; two pairs of boots; two pairs of linen

spats, and a pair of leather gaiters. He also received a long blue

woollen cummerbund, a knapsack of the old British pattern, a bag of

cleaning materials, belts, straps, cartridge-pouches, haversack, and

field flask.

To the fat Sergeant-Major it was a personal insult, and an impudence

amounting almost to blasphemy, that a kepi, or tunic should not fit the

man to whom it was handed. The idea of adapting a ready-made garment to

a man appeared less prominent than that of adapting a ready-made man to

a garment.

"What!" he roared in Legion French, to the fat German boy who understood

not a word of the tirade. "What? Nom d'un petard! Sacre Dieu! The

tunic will not easily button? Then contract thy vile body until it

will, thou offspring of a diseased pig and a dead dog. I will fit thee

to that tunic, and none other, within the week. Wait! But wait--till

thou has eaten the Breakfast of the Legion once or twice, fat sow...."

A gloomy, sardonic Legionary placed a kepi upon the crisply curling hair

of Reginald Rupert. It was miles too big--a ludicrous extinguisher.

The Englishman removed it, and returned it with the remark, "Ca ne

marche pas, mon ami."

"_Merde!_" ejaculated the liverish-looking soldier, and called Heaven to

witness that he was not to blame if the son of a beetle had a walnut for

a head.

Throwing the kepi back into the big box he fished out another, banged it

on Rupert's head, and was about to bring his open hand down on the top

of it, when he caught the cold but blazing eye of the recruit, and

noticed the clenched fist and lips. Had the Legionary's right hand

descended, the recruit's left hand would have risen with promptitude and

force.

"If that is too big, let the sun boil thy brains and bloat thy skull

till it fits, and if it be too small, sleep in it," he remarked sourly,

and added that thrice-accursed "blues" were creatures of the kind that

ate their young, encumbered the earth, polluted the air, loved to _faire

Suisse_,[#] and troubled Soldiers of the Legion who might otherwise have

been in the Canteen, or at Carmelita's--instead of being the valets of

sons of frogs, nameless excrescences....

[#] To drink alone; to sulk.

"Too small," replied Rupert coolly, and flung the cap into the box.

"Valet? I should condole with a crocodile that had a clumsy and

ignorant yokel like you for a valet," he added, in slow and careful

French as he tried on a third cap, which he found more to his liking.

The old Legionary gasped.

"Il m'enmerde!" he murmured, and wiped his brow. He, Jules Duplessis,

Soldat 1ere Classe, with four years' service and the _medaille

militaire_, had been outfaced, browbeaten, insulted by a miserable

"blue." What were the World and La Legion coming to? "_Merde!_"

While trying on his tunic, Rupert saw one of the Russians hand to the

other the tunic and trousers which he had tried on. Apparently being as

alike as two pins in every respect they had adopted the labour-saving

device of one "fitting on" for both.

Having put on the kepi, Mikhail bundled up the uniform, struck an

attitude with arms akimbo, and inquired of the other--

"Do I look _very_ awful in this thing, Fedia?"

"Shut up, you little fool," replied Feodor, with a quick frown. "Try

and look more like a _mujik_ in _maslianitza_,[#] and less like a young

student at private theatricals. You're a Legionary now."

[#] The week before Lent, or "mad week," when all good _mujiks_ get

drunk--or used to do.

When, at length, the recruits had all been fitted into uniforms, and

were ready to depart, they were driven forth with the heart-felt curse

and comprehensive anathema of the Sergeant-Major--

"Sweep the room clear of this offal, Corporal," quoth he. "And if thou

canst make a Legionnaire's little toe out of the whole draft--thou shalt

have the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour--I promise it."

"_En avant. Marche!_" bawled the Corporal, and the "blues" were led

away, up flights of stairs, and along echoing corridors to their future

home, their new quarters. A Legionnaire, carrying a huge earthenware

jug, encountering them outside the door thereof, gave them their first

welcome to the Legion.

"Oh thrice-condemned souls, welcome to Hell," he cried genially, and

kicking open the door of a huge room, he liberally sprinkled each

passing recruit, murmuring as he did so--

"Le diable vous benisse."