THE TRIVIAL ROUND
As he had done almost every night for the last twenty-five years, Sir
Montague Merline lay awake for some time, thinking of his wife.
Was she happy? Of course she was. Any woman is happy with the man she
really loves.
Did she ever think of him? Of course she did. Any woman thinks, at
times, of the man in whose arms she has lain. No doubt his photo stood
in a silver frame on her desk or piano. Huntingten would not mind that.
Nothing petty about Lord Huntingten--and he had been very fond of "good
old Merline," "dear old stick-in-the-mud," as he had so often called
him.
Of course she was happy. Why shouldn't she be? Although Huntingten was
poor as English peers go, there was enough for decent quiet comfort--and
Marguerite had never been keen on making a splash. She had not minded
poverty as Lady Merline.... She was certainly as happy as the day was
long, and it would have been the damnedest cruelty and caddishness to
have turned up and spoilt things. It would have wrecked her life and
Huntingten's too....
Splendid chap, Huntingten--so jolly clever and original, so full of
ideas and unconventionality.... "How to be Happy though Titled." ...
"How to be a Man though a Peer." ... "Efforts for the Effete," and Sir
Montague smiled as he thought of the eccentric peer's pleasantries.
Yes, she'd be happy enough with that fine brave big sportsman with his
sunny face and merry laugh, his gentle and kindly ways, his love of
open-air life, games, sport, and all clean strenuous things. Of course
she was happy.... Did she ever think of him? ... Were there any more
children? ... (And, as always, at this point, Sir Montague frowned and
sighed.)
How he would love a little girl of hers, if she were very, very like
her--and how he would hate a boy if he were like Huntingten. No--not
hate the boy--hate the idea of her having a boy who was like Huntingten.
But how she would love the boy....
What would he not give to see her! Unseen himself, of course. He hoped
he would not get _cafard_ again, when next stationed in the desert. It
had been terrible, unspeakably terrible, to feel that resolution was
weakening, and that when it failed altogether, he would desert and go in
search of her.... Suppose that, with madman's cunning, and with
madman's strength, he should be successful in an attempt to reach
Tunis--the only possible way for a deserter without money--and should
live to reach her, or to be recognised and proclaimed as the lost Sir
Montague Merline. Her life in ruins and her children
illegitimate--nameless bastards.... It was a horribly disturbing
thought, that under the influence of _cafard_ his mind might lose all
ideas and memories and wishes except the one great longing to see her
again, to clasp her in his arms again, to have and to hold.... Well--he
had a lot to be thankful for. So long as Cyrus Hiram Milton was his
bunk-mate it was not likely to happen. Cyrus would see that he did not
desert, penniless and mad, into the desert. And now this English boy
had come--a man with the same training, tastes, habits, haunts and
_cliches_ as himself. Doubtless they had numbers of common
acquaintances. But he must be wary when on that ground. Possibly the
boy knew Lord and Lady Huntingten.... After all it's a very small
world, and especially the world of English Society, clubs, Services, and
sport.... This boy would be a real _companion_, such as dear old Cyrus
could never be, best of friends as he was. He would make a hobby of the
boy, look after him, live his happy past again in talking of London,
Sandhurst, Paris, racing, golf, theatres, clubs, and all the lost things
whose memories they had in common. The boy might perhaps have been at
Winchester too.... Thank Heaven he had come! It would make all the
difference when _cafard_ conditions arose again. Of course he'd get
promoted _Soldat premiere classe_ before long though, and then
_Caporal_. Corporals may not walk and talk with private soldiers.
Yes--the boy would rise and leave him behind. Just his luck.... Might
he not venture to accept promotion now--after all these years, and rise
step by step with him? No, better not. Thin end of the wedge. Once he
allowed himself to be _Soldat premiere classe_ he'd be accepting
promotion to _Caporal_ and _Sergent_ before he knew it. The temptation
to go on to _Chef_ and _Adjudant_ would be overwhelming, and when
offered a commission (and the return to the life of an officer and
gentleman) would be utterly irresistible. Then would come the very
thing to prevent which he had buried himself alive in this hell of a
Legion--recognition and then the public scandal of his wife's innocent
bigamy, and her children's illegitimacy. As an officer he would meet
foreign officers and visitors to Algeria. His portrait might get into
the papers. He might have to go to Paris, or Marseilles, and run risks
of being recognised. No--better to put away temptation and take no
chance of the evil thing. Poor little Marguerite! Think of the cruel
shattering blow to her. It would kill her to give up Huntingten in
addition to knowing her children to be nameless, unable to inherit title
or estates.... No--unthinkable! Do the thing properly or not at
all.... But it was hell to be a second-class soldier all the time, and
never be exempt from liability to sentry-duty, guards, fatigues, filthy
corvees and punishment at the hands of Non-coms. seeking to acquire
merit by discovering demerit.... And he could have had a commission
straight away, when he got his bit of _ferblanterie_[#] in Tonkin and
again in Dahomey. They knew he could speak German and had been an
officer.... It had been a sore temptation--but, thank God, he had
conquered it and not run the greatly enhanced risk of discovery. He
ought really to have committed suicide directly he learned that she was
married. No business to be alive--let alone grumbling about promotion.
Moreover, if any living soul on this earth discovered that he was alive
he must not only die, but let his wife have proof that he really was
dead, this time. Then she and Huntingten could re-marry as the first
ceremony was null and void, and the children be legitimatised.... Of
course there would be more children--they loved each other so....
[#] lit., tin-ware (medals and decorations).
As things were, his being alive did the Huntingtens no harm. It was the
_knowledge_ of his existence that would do the injury--both legal and
personal.... No harm, so long as it wasn't known. They were quite
innocent in the sight of le bon Dieu, and so long as neither they, nor
anyone else, knew--nothing mattered so far as they were concerned....
But fourteen years as a second-class soldier of the Legion! ... And what
was he to do at the end of the fifteenth? They would not re-enlist him.
He would get a pension of five hundred francs a year--twenty pounds a
year--and he had got the cash "bonus" given him when he won the
_medaille militaire_. Where could he hide again? Perhaps he could get
a job as employed-pensioner of the Legion--such as sexton at the
graveyard or assistant-cook, or Officers'-Mess servant? ... Otherwise
he'd find himself one fine morning at the barracks-gates, dressed in a
suit of blue sacking from the Quartermaster's store, fitting him where
it touched him; a big flat tam-o'-shanter sort of cap; a rough shirt,
and a blue cravat "to wind twice round the neck"; a pair of socks (for
the first time in fifteen years), and a decent pair of boots. He'd have
his papers, a free pass to any part of France he liked to name, a franc
a day for the journey thereto, and his week's pay.
And what good would the papers and pass be to him--who dared not leave
the shelter of the all-concealing Legion? ... Surely it would be safe
for him to return to England, or at any rate to go to France or some
other part of Europe? Why not to America or the Colonies? No, nowhere
was safe, and nothing was certain. Besides, how was he to get there?
His pass would take him to any part of France, and nowhere else. A fine
thing--to hide in the Legion for fifteen years, actually to survive
fifteen years of a second-class soldier's life in the Legion, and then
to risk rendering it all useless! One breath of rumour--and
Marguerite's life was spoilt.... Discovery--and it was ruined, just
when her children (if she had any more) were on the threshold of their
careers.... Well, life in the Legion was remarkably uncertain, and there
still remained a year in which all problems might be finally solved by
bullet, disease, or death in some other of the many forms in which it
visited the step-sons of France.... Where was old Strong now? ...
Legionary John Bull fell asleep.
Meanwhile, a few inches from him, Reginald Rupert had found himself
unusually and unpleasantly wakeful. It had been a remarkably full and
tiring day, and as crowded with new experiences as the keenest
experience-seeker could desire.... He was very glad he had come. This
was going to be a good toughening man's life, and real soldiering. He
would not have missed it for anything. It would hold a worthy place in
the list of things which he had done and been, the list that, by the end
of his life, he hoped would be a long and very varied one. By the time
"the governor" died (and he trusted that might not happen for another
forty years) he hoped to have been in many armies and Frontier Police
forces, to have been a sailor, a cowboy, a big-game hunter, a trapper,
an explorer and prospector, a gold-miner, a war correspondent, a
gumdigger, and many other things in many parts of the world, in addition
to his present record of Public-school, Sandhurst, 'Varsity man, British
officer, trooper, and French Legionnaire. He hoped to continue to turn
up in any part of the world where there was a war.
What Reginald, like his father, loathed and feared was Modern Society
life, and in fact all modern civilised life as it had presented itself
to his eyes--with its incredibly false standards, values and ideals, its
shoddy shams and vulgar pretences, its fat indulgences, slothfulness and
folly.
To him, as to his father (whose curious mental kink he had inherited),
the world seemed a dreadful place in which drab, dull folk followed
drab, dull pursuits for drab, dull ends. People who lived for pleasure
were so occupied and exhausted in its pursuit that they got no pleasure.
People who worked were so closely occupied in earning their living that
they never lived. He did not know which class he disliked more--the men
who lived their weary lives at clubs, grand-stands, country-house
parties, Ranelagh and Hurlingham, the Riviera, the moors, and the Yacht
Squadron; or those who lived dull laborious days in offices, growing
flabby and grey in pursuit of the slippery shekel.
The human animal seemed to him to have become as adventurous, gallant,
picturesque and gay as the mole, the toad, and the slug. An old tomcat
on a backyard fence seemed to him to be a more independent, care-free,
self-respecting and gentlemanly person than his owner, a man who, all
God's wide world before him, was, for a few monthly metal discs, content
to sit in a stuffy hole and copy hieroglyphics from nine till six--that
another man might the quicker amass many dirty metal discs and a double
chin. To Reginald, the men of even his own class seemed travesties and
parodies of a noble original, in that they were content to lead the
dreadful lives they did--killing tame birds, knocking little balls about
the place, watching other people ride races, rushing around in motors,
sailing sunny seas in luxury and safety, seeing foreign lands only from
their best hotels, poodle-faking and philandering, doing everything but
anything--pampered, soft, useless; each a most exact and careful copy of
his neighbour. Reginald loved, and excelled at, every form of sport,
and had been prominent in the playing-fields at Winchester, Sandhurst
and Oxford, but he could not live by sport alone, and to him it had
always been a means and not an end, a means to health, strength, skill
and hardihood--the which were to be applied--not to _more_ games--but to
the fuller living of life. The seeds of his father's teaching had
fallen on most receptive and fertile soil, and their fruit ripened not
the slower by reason of the fact that his father was his friend,
confidant, hero and model.... He could see him now as he straddled
mightily on the rug before the library fire, in his pink and cords, his
spurred tops splashed with mud, and grey on the inner sides with the
sweat of his horse....
"Brown-paper prisons for poor men, and pink-silk cages for rich--that's
Life nowadays, my boy, unless you're careful.... Get hold of Life,
don't let Life get hold of you. Take the family motto for your guidance
in actual fact. '_Be all, see all_.' Try to carry it out as far as
humanly possible. _Live_ Life and live it in the World. Don't live a
thousandth part of Life in a millionth part of the World, as all our
neighbours do. When you succeed me here and marry and settle down, be
able to say you've seen everything, done everything, been everything....
Be a gentleman, of course, but one can be a man as well as being a
gentleman--gentility is of the heart and conduct and manners--not of
position and wealth and rank. What's the good of seeing one little
glimpse of life out of one little window--whether it's a soldier's
window (which is the best of windows), or a sailor's, or a lawyer's,
parson's, merchant's, scholar's, sportsman's, landowner's, politician's,
or any other.... And go upwards and downwards too, my boy. Tramps,
ostlers, costermongers and soldiers are a dam' sight more interestin'
than kings--and a heap more human. A chap who's only moved in one plane
of society isn't educated--not worth listening to..." and much more to
the same effect--and Rupert smiled to himself as he thought of how his
father had advised him not to "waste" more than a year at Sandhurst,
another at Oxford, and another in an Officers' Mess, before setting
forth to see real life, and real men living it hard and to the full, in
the capitals and the corners of the earth.
"How the dear old boy must have worshipped mother--to have married and
settled down, at forty," he reflected, "and what a beauty she must have
been. She's lovely now," and again his rather hard face softened into a
smile as he thought of the interview in which he told her of his
intention to "chuck" his commission and go and do things and see things.
Little had he known that she had fully anticipated and daily expected
the declaration which he feared would be a "terrible blow" to her....
Did she expect him to be anything else than the son of his father and
his eccentric and adventurous House?
"I wouldn't have you be anything but a chip of the old block, my darling
boy. You're of age and your old mother isn't going to be a millstone
round your neck, like she's been round your father's. Only one woman
can have the right to be that, and you will give her the right when you
marry her.... Your family really ought not to marry."
"Mother, Mother!" he had protested, "and 'bring up our children to do
the same,' I suppose?"
She had been bravely gay when he went, albeit a little damp of eye and
red of nose.... Really he was a lucky chap to have such a mother. She
was one in a thousand and he must faithfully do his utmost to keep his
promise and go home once a year or thereabouts--also "to take care of
his nails, not crop his hair, change damp socks, and wear wool next his
skin...." Want a bit of doin' in the Legion, what! Good job the poor
darling couldn't see Luigi Rivoli breaking up recruits, or Sergeant
Legros superintending the ablutions of her Reginald. What would she
think of this galley and his fellow galley-slaves--of 'Erb, the
_Apache_, Carmelita, the Grasshopper, and the drunkards of the Canteen?
The Bucking Bronco would amuse her, and she'd certainly be interested in
John Bull, poor old chap.... What could his story be, and why was he
here? Was there a woman in it? ... Probably. He didn't look the sort
of chap who'd "done something." Poor devil! ... Yes, her big warm heart
would certainly have a corner for John Bull. Had she not been well
brought up by her husband and son in the matter of seeing a swan in
every goose they brought home? Yes, he'd repay John Bull's kindness to
the full when he left the Legion. He should come straight to Elham Old
Hall and his mother should have the chance, which she would love, of
thanking and, in some measure, repaying the good chap. He wouldn't tell
him exactly who they were and what they were, lest he should pretend
that fifteen years of Legion life had spoilt him for _la vie de
chateau_, and refuse to visit them.... He'd like to know his story.
What _could_ be the cause of a man like him leading this ha'penny-a-day
life for fourteen years? Talk of paper prisons and silken cages--this
was a prison of red-hot stone. Fancy this the setting for the best
years of your life, and he sat up and looked round the moonlit room.
Next to him lay the Bucking Bronco, snoring heavily, his moustache
looking huge and black in the moonlight that made his face appear pale
and fine.... A strong and not unkindly face, with its great jutting chin
and square heavy jaw.
'Erb lay on the neighbouring cot, his hands clasped above his head as he
slept the sleep of the just and innocent, for whom a night of peaceful
slumber is the meet reward of a well-spent day. His pinched and cunning
little face was transfigured by the moonlight, and the sleeping Herbert
Higgins looked less the vulgar, street-bred guttersnipe than did the
waking "'Erbiggins" of the day.
Beyond him lay the mighty bulk of Luigi Rivoli, breathing stertorously
in drunken slumber as he sprawled, limb-scattered, on his face, fully
dressed, save for his boots....
What an utter swine and cad--reflected Reginald--and what would happen
when he selected him for his attentions? Of course, the Neapolitan had
ten times his strength and twice his weight--but there would have to be
a fight--or a moral victory for the recruit. He would obey no behests of
Luigi Rivoli, nor accept any insults nor injuries tamely. He would land
the cad one of the best, and take the consequences, however humiliating
or painful. And he'd do it every time too, until he were finally
incapacitated, or Luigi Rivoli weary of the game. Evidently the brute
had some sort of respect for the big American and for John Bull. He
should learn to have some for "Reginald Rupert," too, or the latter
would die in the attempt to teach it. The prospect was not alluring
though, and the Austrian and the _Apache_ had received sharp and painful
lessons on the folly of defying or attacking Luigi Rivoli.
Still--experiences, dangers, difficulties and real, raw, primitive life
were what his family sought--and here were some of them. Yes, he was
ready for Il Signor Luigi Rivoli....
In the next bed lay the Russian, Mikhail. Queer, shy chap. What a
voice, and what a complexion for a recruit of the Foreign Legion! How
extraordinarily alike he and his brother were, and yet there was a great
difference between their respective voices and facial expressions....
Another queer story there. They looked like students.... Probably
involved in some silly Nihilist games and had to bolt for their lives
from the Russian police or from Nihilist confederates, or both. It was
nice to see how the manlier brother looked after the other. He seemed
to be in a perpetual state of concern and anxiety about him.
Beyond the Russian recruit lay the mad Legionary known as the
Grasshopper. What a pathetic creature--an ex-officer of one of the most
aristocratic corps in Europe. In fact he must be a nobleman or he could
not have been in the Guides. Must be of an ancient family moreover.
Besides, he was so very obviously of _ceux qui ont pris la peine de
naitre_. What could his story be? Fancy the man being a really
first-class soldier on parade, manoeuvres, march, or battlefield, and an
obvious lunatic at the same time.... Poor devil!...
Next to him was the other Russian, and then Edouard Malvin, the
nasty-looking cad who appeared to be Rivoli's chief toady. His
neighbour was the fat and dull-looking Dutch lad (who was to display
such unusual and enviable moral courage)....
Footsteps resounded without, and the Room-Corporal entered with a
clatter. Turning down his blanket, as though expecting to find
something beneath it, he disclosed some bottles, a few packets of
tobacco and cigarettes, and a little heap of coins.
"Bonheur de Dieu vrai!" he ejaculated. "'Y'a de bon!" and examined the
packets for any indication of their orientation. "'Les deux Russes,'"
he read, and broke into a guinguette song. Monsieur le Caporal loved
wine and was _un ramasseur de sous_. These Russians were really worthy
and sensible recruits, and, though they should escape none of their
duties, they should be regarded with a tolerant and non-malicious eye by
Monsieur le Caporal. No undue share of corvees should be theirs.... No
harm in their complimenting their good Caporal and winning his
approval--but, on the other hand, no bribery and corruption. Mais
non--c'est tout autre chose!
As the Corporal disrobed, the Grasshopper rose from his cot, crouched,
and hopped towards him.
The Corporal evinced no surprise.
"Monsieur le Caporal," quoth the Grasshopper. "How can a Cigale steer a
gunboat? ... I ask you.... How can I possibly dip the ensign from peak
to taffrail, cat the anchor or shoot the sun, by the pale glimmer of the
binnacle light? ... And I have, for cargo, the Cestus of Aphrodite...."
"And _I_ have, for cargo, seven bottles of good red wine--beneath my
Cestus of Corporal--so I can't tell you, Grasshopper," was the reply....
"Va t'en! ... You go and ask Monsieur le bon Diable--and tell him his
old _ami_ Caporal Achille Martel sent you.... Go on--_allez schteb'
los_--and let me sleep...."
The Grasshopper hopped to the door and out into the corridor....
Rupert fell asleep....
As John Bull had prophesied, he was awakened by yells of "_Au jus! Au
jus! Au jus!_" from the garde-chambre, the room-orderly on duty, as he
went from cot to cot with a huge jug.
Each sleepy soul roused himself sufficiently to hold out the tin mug
which hung at the head of his bed, and to receive a half-pint or so of
the "gravy"--which proved to be really excellent coffee. For his own
part, Rupert would have been glad of the addition of a little milk and
sugar, but he had swallowed too much milkless and sugarless tea (from a
basin) in the British Army, to be concerned about such a trifle....
"Good morning. Put on the white trousers and come downstairs with me,"
said John Bull, as he also swallowed his coffee. "Be quick, or you
won't get a chance at the lavatory. There's washing accommodation for
six men when sixty want it.... Come on."
As he hurried from the room, Rupert noticed that Corporal Martel lay
comfortably in bed while the rest hurriedly dressed. From time to time
he mechanically shouted: "Levez-vous, mes enfants...." "Levez-vous,
assassins...." "Levez-vous, scelerats...."
After each of his shouts came, in antistrophe, the anxious yell of the
garde-chambre (who had to sweep the room before parade) of "Balayez
au-dessous vos lits!"
Returning from his hasty and primitive wash, Rupert noticed that the
Austrian recruit was lacing Rivoli's boots, while the _Apache_,
grimacing horribly behind his back, brushed the Neapolitan down, Malvin
superintending their labours.
"Shove on the white tunic and blue sash," said John Bull to his
protege--"and you'll want knapsack, cartridge-belt, bayonet and
rifle.... Bye-bye! I must be off. You'll have recruit-drills separate
from us for some time.... See you later...."
Sec.3
Legionnaire Reginald Rupert soon found that French drill methods of
training differed but little from English, though perhaps more thorough
and systematically progressive, and undoubtedly better calculated to
develop initiative.
It did not take the Corporal-Instructor long to single him out as an
unusually keen and intelligent recruit, and Rupert was himself surprised
at the pleasure he derived from being placed as Number One of the
_escouade_ of recruits, after a few days. His knowledge of French
helped him considerably, of course, and on that first morning he had
obeyed the Corporal's roar of "_Sac a terre_," "_A gauche_," "_A
droit_," "_En avant, marche_," "_Pas gymnastique_," or "_Formez les
faisceaux_," before the majority of the others had translated them. He
also excelled in the eating of the "Breakfast of the Legion," which is
nothing more nor less than a terribly punishing run, in quick time,
round and round the parade-ground. By the time the Corporal called a
halt, Rupert, who was a fine runner, in the pink of condition, was
beginning to feel that he had about shot his bolt, while, with one or
two exceptions, the rest of the squad were in a state of real distress,
gasping, groaning, and coughing, with protruding eyeballs and faces
white, green, or blue. During the brief "cigarette halt," he gazed
round with some amusement at the prostrate forms of his exhausted
comrades.
The Russian, Feodor, seemed to be in pretty well as good condition as
himself--in striking contrast to Mikhail, whose state was pitiable, as
he knelt doubled up, drawing his breath in terrible gasps, and holding
his side as though suffering agonies from "stitch."
'Erb was in better case, but he lay panting as though his little chest
would burst.
"Gawdstrewth, matey," he grunted to M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, "I ain't
run so much since I last see a copper."
The _Apache_, green-faced and blue-lipped, showed his teeth in a vicious
snarl, by way of reply. Absinthe and black cigarettes are a poor
training-diet.
The fat Dutch lad, Hans Djoolte, appeared to be in extremis and likely
to disappear in a pool of perspiration. The gnarled-looking Spaniard
drew his breath with noisy whoops, and stout Germans, Alsatians,
Belgians and Frenchmen gave the impression of persons just rescued from
drowning or suffocation by smoke. Having finished his cigarette, the
Corporal ran to the far side of the parade-ground, raised his hand with
a shout, and cried, "_A moi_."
"Well run, _bleu_," he observed to Rupert, who arrived first.
Before the "breakfast" half-hour was over, he was thoroughly tired, and
more than a little sorry for some of the others. M. Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat was violently sick; the plump Dutchman was soaked from head
to foot; many a good, stout Hans, Fritz and Carl wished he had never
been born; and Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself by falling flat
in a dead faint, to the contemptuous and outspoken disgust of the
Corporal.
It was indeed a kill-or-cure training, and, in some cases, bade fair to
kill before it cured. One drill-manoeuvre interested Rupert by its
novelty and yet by its suggestion of the old Roman _testudo_. On the
order "_A genoux_," all had to fall on their knees and every man of the
squad, not in the front rank, to thrust his head well under the knapsack
of the man in front of him. Since, under service conditions, knapsacks
would be stuffed with spare uniforms and underclothing, and covered with
tent-canvas, blanket, spare boots, fuel or a cooking-pot, excellent
head-cover was thus provided against shrapnel and shell-fragments, and
from bullets from some of such rifles as are used by the Chinese,
African, Madagascan, and Arab foes of the Legion. Interested or not, it
was with unfeigned thankfulness that, at about eleven o'clock, Rupert
found himself marching back to barracks and heard the "_Rompez_" command
of dismissal outside the _caserne_ of his Company. Hurrying up to the
_chambree_ he put his Lebel in the rack, his knapsack and belts on the
shelf above his bed, and lay down to get that amount of rest without
which he felt he could not face breakfast.
"Hallo, Rupert! Had a gruelling?" enquired John Bull, entering and
throwing off his accoutrements. "They make you earn your little bit of
corn, don't they? You feel it less day by day though, and soon find you
can do it without turning a hair. Not much chance of a chap with weak
lungs or heart surviving the 'Breakfast of the Legion,' for long. You
see the point of the training when you begin the desert marches."
"Quite looking forward to it," said Rupert.
"It's better looking back on it, on the whole," rejoined the other
grimly.... "Feel like breakfast?" he added in French, remembering that
the more his young friend spoke in that tongue the better.
"Oh, I'm all right. What'll it be?"
"Well, not _bec-fins_ and _peche Melba_ exactly. Say a mug of
bread-soup, containing potato and vegetables and a scrap of meat. Sort
of Irish stew."
"_Arlequins_ at two sous the plate, first, for me, please," put in M.
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, whose small compact frame seemed to have recovered
its normal elasticity and vigour.
As he spoke, the voice of a kitchen-orderly was raised below in a
long-drawn howl of "_Soupe! A la Soupe!_" Turning with one accord to
the garde-chambre the Legionaries bawled "_Soupe!_" as one man, and like
an arrow from a bow, the room-orderly sped forth, to return a minute
later bearing the soup-kettle and a basket of loaves of grey bread. Tin
plates and utensils were snatched from the hanging-cupboards, and mugs
from their hooks on the wall and the Legionaries seated themselves on
the benches that ran down either side of the long table.
"'Fraid you'll have to stand out, Rupert, being a recruit," said John
Bull. "There's only room for twenty at this table."
"Of course. Thanks," was the reply, and the speaker betook himself to
his bed, and sat him down with his mug and crust.
With cheerful sociability, 'Erb had already seated himself at table, and
was beating a loud tattoo with mug and plate as he awaited the
administrations of the soup-laden Ganymede.
Suddenly the expansive and genial smile faded on 'Erb's happy face, as
he felt himself seized by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his
trousers, and raised four feet in the air.... For a second he hovered,
descended a foot and was then shot through the air with appalling
violence to some distant corner of the earth. Fortunately for 'Erb,
that corner contained a bed and he landed fairly on it.... The
Legionary Herbert Higgins in the innocence of his ignorance had occupied
the Seats of the Mighty, had sat him down in the place of Luigi
Rivoli--and Luigi had removed the insect.
"Gawd love us!" said 'Erb. "'Oo'd a' thought it?" as he realised that
he was still in barracks and had only travelled from the table to a cot,
a distance of some six feet....
Mikhail Kyrilovitch lay stretched on his bed, too exhausted to eat. It
interested and rather touched Rupert to see how tenderly the other
Russian half raised him from the bed, coaxed him with soup and, failing,
produced a bottle of wine from behind the _paquetage_ on his shelf, and
induced him to drink a little....
"Potato fatigue after this, Rupert," said John Bull as he came over to
the recruit, and offered him a cigarette. "Ghastly stuff you'll find
this black Algerian tobacco, but one gets used to it. It's funny, but
when I get a taste of any of the tobaccos from Home, I find my palate so
ruined that I don't enjoy it. Seems acrid and strong though it's
infinitely milder...."
The Kitchen-Corporal thrust his head in at the door of the _chambree_,
roared "_Aux palates_" and vanished. Trooping down to the kitchen, the
whole Company stood in a ring and solemnly peeled potatoes. Here, at
any rate, Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself among the recruits,
for not only was his the first potato to fall peeled into the bucket,
but his peel was the thinnest, his output the greatest. Standing next
to him, Rupert noticed how tiny were his hands and wrists, and how
delicate his nails.
"Apparently this is part of regular routine and not a corvee," he
remarked.
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
"Great tip to get cunning at dodging extra fatigues when you're a
soldier," continued Rupert.
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
"Expect they'll catch us wretched recruits on that lay until we get
artful."
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
What a funny shy lad he was, with his eternal "Mais oui, Monsieur" ...
Perhaps that was all the French he knew!...
"Do you think the medical-examination will be very--er--searching,
Monsieur?" asked Mikhail.
So he did know French after all. What was he trembling about now?
"Shouldn't think so. Why? You're all right, aren't you? You wouldn't
have passed the doctor when you enlisted, otherwise."
"Non, Monsieur."
"Where did you enlist?"
"At Paris, Monsieur."
"So did I; Rue St. Dominique. LIttle fat cove in red breeches and a
white tunic. I suppose you had the same chap?"
"Er--oui, Monsieur."
"I suppose he overhauled you very thoroughly? ... Wasn't it infernally
cold standing stark naked in that beastly room while he punched you
about?"
"Oh!--er--oui, Monsieur. Oh, please let us ... Er--wasn't that running
dreadful this morning?" ...
"I say, Monsieur Rupaire, do you think we shall have the same
'breakfast' every morning?" put in Feodor Kyrilovitch. "It'll be the
death of my brother here, if we do. He never was a runner."
"'Fraid so, during recruits' course," replied Rupert, and added: "I
noticed a great difference between you and your brother."
"Oh, it's only just in that respect," was the reply. "I've always been
better winded than he.... Illness when he was a kid.... Lungs not over
strong...."
Even as he had prophesied, an Orderly-Sergeant swooped down upon them as
the potato-fatigue finished, and, while the old Legionaries somehow
melted into thin air and vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision,
the recruits were captured and commandeered for a barrack-scavenging
corvee which kept them hard at work until it was time to fall in for
"theory."
This Rupert discovered to be instruction in recognition of badges of
rank, and, later, in every sort and kind of rule and regulation; in
musketry, tactics, training and the principles and theory of drill,
entrenchment, scouting, skirmishing, and every other branch of military
education.
At two o'clock, drill began again, and lasted until four, at which hour
Monsieur le Medicin-Major held the medical examination, the idea of
which seemed so disturbing to Mikhail Kyrilovitch. It proved to be the
merest formality--a glance, a question, a caution against excess, and
the recruits were passed and certified as _bon pour le service_ at the
rate of twenty to the quarter-hour. They were, moreover, free for the
remainder of the day (provided they escaped all victim-hunting
Non-coms., in search of corvee-parties) with the exception of such hours
as might be necessary for labours of _astiquage_ and the _lavabo_.
On returning to the _chambree_, Rupert found his friend John Bull
awaiting him.
"Well, Rupert," he cried cheerily, "what sort of a day have you had?
Tired? We'll get 'soupe' again shortly. I'll take you to the _lavabo_
afterwards, and show you the ropes. Got to have your white kit, arms
and accoutrements all _klim-bim_, as the Germans say, before you dress
and go out, or else you'll have to do it in the dark."
"Yes, thanks," replied Rupert. "I'll get straight first. I hate 'spit
and polish' after Lights Out. What'll the next meal be?"
"Same as this morning--the eternal 'soupe.' The only variety in food is
when dog-biscuit replaces bread.... Nothing to grumble at really,
except the infernal monotony. Quantity is all right--in fact some
fellows save up a lot of bread and biscuit and sell it in the town.
(Eight days _salle de police_ if you're caught.) But sometimes you feel
you could eat anything in the wide world except Legion 'soupe,' bread
and biscuit...."
After the second and last meal of the day, at about five o'clock, Rupert
was introduced to the _lavabo_ and its ways--particularly its ways in
the matter of disappearing soap and vanishing "washing"--and, his first
essay in laundry-work concluded, returned with Legionary John Bull and
the Bucking Bronco for an hour or two of leather-polishing,
accoutrement-cleaning and "Ironing" without an iron.
The room began to fill and was soon a scene of more or less silent
industry. On his bed, the great Luigi Rivoli lay magnificently asleep,
while, on neighbouring cots and benches, his weapons, accoutrements,
boots and uniform received the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Meyer,
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Dimitropoulos, Borges, Bauer, Hirsch, and others,
his henchmen.
Anon the great man awoke, yawned cavernously, ejaculated "_Dannazione_"
and sat up. One gathered that the condition of his mouth was not all
that it might be, and that his head ached. Even he was not exempt from
the penalties incurred by lesser men, and even he had to recognise the
fact that a next-morning follows an evening-before. Certain denizens of
the _chambree_ felt, and looked, uneasy, but were reassured by the
reflection that there was still a stock of _bleus_ unchastened, and
available for the great man's needs and diversion. Rising, he roared
"_Oho!_", smacked and flexed his muscles according to his evening
ritual, and announced that a recruit might be permitted to fetch him
water.
Feodor Kyrilovitch unobtrusively changed places with his brother
Mikhail, whose bed was next to that of the bully.
"Here, dog," roared the Neapolitan, and brought his "quart" down with a
right resounding blow upon the bare head of Feodor. Without a word the
Russian took the mug and hurried to the nearest lavatory. Returning he
handed it respectfully to Rivoli, and pointing into it said in broken
Italian--
"There would appear to be a mark on the bottom of the Signor's cup."
The great man looked--and smiled graciously as he recognised a gold
twenty-franc piece. "A thoroughly intelligent recruit," he added,
turning to Malvin who nodded and smiled drily. It entered the mind of
le bon Legionnaire Malvin that this recruit should also give an
exhibition of his intelligence to le bon Legionnaire Malvin.
"Where's that fat pig from Olanda who can only whine '_Verstaan nie_'
when he is spoken to?" enquired Rivoli, looking round. "Let me see if I
can 'Verstaan' him how to put my boots on smartly."
But, fortunately for himself, the Dutch recruit, Hans Djoolte, was not
present.
"Not there?" thundered the great man, on being informed. "How dare the
fat calf be not there? Let it be known that I desire all the recruits of
this room to be on duty from 'Soupe' till six, or later, in case I
should want them. Let them all parade before me now."
Some sheepishly grinning, some with looks of alarm, some under strong
protest, all the recruits with one exception, "fell in" at the foot of
the Italian's bed. Some were dismissed as they came up; the two
Russians, as having paid their footing very handsomely; the _Apache_,
and Franz Josef Meyer, as having been properly broken to bit and curb;
the Greek, as a declared admirer and slave; and one or two others who
had already wisely propitiated, or, to their sorrow, encountered less
pleasantly, the uncrowned king of the Seventh Company. The remainder
received tasks, admonitions and warnings, the which were received
variously, but without open defiance.
"The attitude of le Legionnaire 'Erbiggins was characteristic.
Realising that he had not a ghost of a chance of success against a man
of twice his weight and thrice his strength, he took the leggings which
were given him to clean and returned a stream of nervous English, of
which the pungent insults and vile language accorded but ill with the
bland innocence of his face, and the deferential acquiescence of his
manner.
"Ain't yew goin' ter jine the merry throng?" asked the Bucking Bronco of
Reginald Rupert, upon hearing that recruit reply to Malvin's order to
join the line, with a recommendation that Malvin should go to the devil.
"I am not," replied Rupert.
"Wal, I guess we'll back yew up, sonny," said the American with an
approving smile.
"I shall be glad if you will in no way interfere," returned the
Englishman.
"Gee-whillikins!" commented the Bucking Bronco.
John Bull looked anxious. "He's the strongest man I have ever seen," he
remarked, "besides being a professional wrestler and acrobat."
Malvin again approached, grinning maliciously.
"Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would be sorry to have to come and fetch you,
English pig," said he. "Sorry for you, that is. Do you wish to find
yourself _au grabat_,[#] you scurvy, mangy, lousy cur of a recruit? ...
What reply shall I take Il Signor Luigi Rivoli?"
[#] On a sick bed.
"_That!_" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a
most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand,
sending him staggering several yards. Without paying further attention
to the great man's ambassador, he strode in the direction of the great
man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw.
"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was
rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his
body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight
at the point of his jaw.
It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the
very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither
standing nor sitting.
He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.
Into the perfect silence of the _chambree_ fell the voice of the Bucking
Bronco. Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of
"OUT!" threw his kepi to the roof and roared "_Hurrah!_" repeatedly.
"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert's
handiwork with experienced, professional eye.
Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe.
"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as
"Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.
But le Legionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.
"You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm afraid.... What about when he
comes round?"
"I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don't interfere,
anyhow."
"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An' look at hyar.
Let's interfere, to the extent o' makin' thet cunning coyote fight down
in the squar'.... Yew won't hev no chance--so don't opine yew will--but
yew'll hev' more chance than yew will right hyar.... Yew want space
when you roughhouses with Loojey. Once he gits a holt on yew--yure
monica's up. Savvy?"
"Thanks," replied the Englishman. "Right-ho! If he won't fight
downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us."
"Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin'
gang," put in 'Erb. "'E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg.... Too
free wiv' hisself.... Chucks 'is weight abaht too much.... An' I'll
tell yer wot, Cocky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in
the chops."
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who
stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a
broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad.
Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[#] any dark night. Yew try ter
_zigouiller_[#] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through
yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of
half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous? _Je tirerai vos gueutes a
travers votre bouche jusqu'a vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au
bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni_.... Got it? ..."
[#] Bayonet.
[#] To bayonet.
Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that
none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance. The sceptre of
the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled
by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of
wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he
licked his lips.
"_Je m'en souviendrai_," he murmured.
Rivoli sat up.
"Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What
has happened?..." and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait
but a minute--and then bring him to me."
Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters. The
great Luigi was alive and on his throne again. The Greek passed him a
mug of water.
"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me.... One of you
might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he
added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the
cemetery and tell him to start another grave."
"You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert
contemptuously. "You're going to fight me down below. There's going to
be a ring, and fair play. Will you come now, or will you wait till
to-morrow? I can wait if you feel shaken."
"Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub," advised the American, and
turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey. Ef yew ain't hed
enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up with the
b'y. Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll take a hand too. I would
anyhaow, only the b'y wants yew all to himself.... Greedy young punk."
"I will kill him and eat him _now_," said the Italian rising
magnificently. Apparently his splendid constitution and physique had
triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck.
"Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet Dago don't fight as
square as he knows haow, I'll pull his lower jaw off his face."
In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat
on the edge of his brother's bed and shuddered.
Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party
made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back
entrance of the Company's _caserne_, a safe and secluded spot for
fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young
friend.
"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public
opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect
him to clinch and kick as well as butt."
"Right-o!" said Rupert.
A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a
ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare
that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any
supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.
The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a
pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger
"peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular
development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had
systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli,
the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring
comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him,
for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose
stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength....
It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between
Apollo and Hercules.
The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands
advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.
The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.
As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of
the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a
moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and
English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted to _la boxe_....
He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed.... For a full minute
the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the
Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with
his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great
arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like
pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific
force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as
the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.
John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his
opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly ... slowly ... almost
imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further
back. What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting
his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen....
Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he
could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il
Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing
seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned
sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his
right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the
force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on
the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The
Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.
"Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French
failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're
gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin',
Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.
John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and
bleeding from mouth and nose.
Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand,
a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine
spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two
corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.
The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.
"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and
faculties.
"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.
"You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in.... W'y
carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his
ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of
his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs:
"Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers
to his nose and emitting a bellowing _Boo-oo-oo!_ of incredibly
bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im
in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of
love.
Rupert struggled to his feet.
"Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed out his mouth. "How long
'time' is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.
"Oh, nothing's regular," was the reply. "'Rounds' end when you fall
apart, and 'time' ends when both are ready.... You aren't going for him
again, are you?"
"I'm going for him as long as I can stand and see," was the answer.
'Erb patted him on the back.
"Blimey! You're a White Man, matey," he commended. "S'welp me, you
are!"
"Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking Bronco, and
unceremoniously shoved back all who delayed.
A look of incredulity spread over the face of the Italian. Could it be
possible that the fool did not know that he was utterly beaten and
abolished? ... He tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs....
It was true. The Englishman advanced upon him, the light of battle in
his eyes, and fierce determination expressed in the frown upon his white
face. His mouth bore no expression--it was merely a mess.
A cheer went up from the spectators.
A recruit asking for it _twice_, from Luigi Rivoli!
That famous man, though by no means anxious, was slightly perplexed.
There was something here to which he was not accustomed. It was the
first time in his experience that this had happened. Few men had defied
and faced him once--none had done it twice. This, in itself was bad,
and in the nature of a faint blow to his prestige.... He had tried a
grapple--with unfortunate results; he had tried a kick--most
successfully, and he would try another in a moment. Lest his opponent
should be warily expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram
butt. He crouched forward, extending his open hands as though to
grapple, and, suddenly ducking his head, flung himself forward,
intending to drive the breath from his enemy's body and seize him by the
throat ere he recovered.
Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped and, as he did so, smote
the Italian with all his strength full upon the ear--a blow which caused
that organ to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours. Rivoli staggered
sideways and fell. The Englishman stood back and waited. Rivoli arose
as quickly as he fell, and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the
Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and right, cutting his
knuckles to the bone. Heavy and true as were the blows, they could not
avail to stop that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the
Italian's arms were round him. One mighty hug and heave, and his whole
body, clasped as in a vice to that of the Italian, was bent over
backward in a bow.
"Thet's torn it," groaned the American, and dashed his kepi upon the
ground. "Fer two damns I'd..."
John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
"Go it, Rupert," bawled 'Erb, dancing in a frenzy of excitement. "Git
'is froat.... Swing up yer knee.... Kick 'im."
"Shut up," snapped John Bull. "He's not a hooligan...."
One of Rupert's arms was imprisoned in those of the Italian. True to
his training and standards, he played the game as he had learnt it, and
kept his free right hand from his opponent's throat. With his failing
strength he rained short-arm blows on the Italian's face, until it was
turned sideways and crushed against his neck and shoulder.
John Bull mistook the bully's action.
"If you bite his throat, I'll shoot you, Rivoli," he shouted, and
applauding cheers followed the threat.
The muscles of Rivoli's back and arms tightened and bunched as he
strained with all his strength. Slowly but surely he bent further over,
drawing the Englishman's body closer and closer in his embrace.
To John Bull, the seconds seemed years. Complete silence reigned.
Rupert's blows weakened and became feeble. They ceased. Rivoli bent
over further. As Rupert's right arm fell to his side, the Italian
seized it from behind. His victim was now absolutely powerless and
motionless. John Bull was reminded of a boa-constrictor which he had
once seen crush a deer. Suddenly the Italian's left arm was withdrawn,
his right arm continuing to imprison Rupert's left while his right hand
retained his grip of the other. Thrusting his left hand beneath the
Englishman's chin he put all his colossal strength into one great
effort--pushing the head back until it seemed that the neck must break,
and at the same time contracting his great right arm and bending himself
almost double. He then raised his opponent and dashed him to the
ground....
Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the Legion's Hospital.
A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided that his back was
not broken but only badly sprained. On leaving hospital, a fortnight
later, he did eight days _salle de police_ by way of convalescence.
On return to duty, he found himself something of a hero in the Seventh
Company, and decidedly the hero of the recruits of his _chambree_.
Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull and the reiterated
advice of the Bucking Bronco, and of the almost worshipping 'Erb--he
awaited Luigi Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged him
to fight.
The great man burst into explosive laughter--laughter almost too
explosive to be wholly genuine.
"Fight you, whelp! Fight you, _whelp_!" he scoffed. "_Why_ should I
fight you? Pah! Out of my sight--I have something else to do."
"Oh have you? Well, don't forget that I have nothing else to do, any
time you feel like fighting. See?" replied the Englishman.
The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert with beating heart
and well-concealed sense of mighty relief, returned to his cot to work.
It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli invariably had something
else to do, so far as Rupert was concerned, and molested him no more.