Читать книгу McGlusky o' the Legion - A. G. Hales - Страница 4

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McGlusky’s first day in the hands of the drill sergeant taught him many things. Like most Anzacs, he imagined he knew what hard work was. As a pioneer prospector and gold-seeker in the waterless wastes of his own country, this Scots Australian had sampled life in its most rugged form, and had more than kept his end up. Campaigning in Africa, Egypt and China had also initiated him into phases of life that had not many feather-beds in it, but he found the Légion d’Afrique different from anything and everything he had experienced before. He had served under non-coms. who, whilst being strict and stern disciplinarians, were yet real men, splendid fellows, who worked a recruit until guts turned to gristle and gristle to bone, but did it all for the recruit’s own ultimate good and for the glory of the regiment. Others he had obeyed who were only polecats, who shirked themselves and allowed men to shirk, who could put a silver plaster over their eyes, and some who were arrant toadies to the commissioned officers and undiluted pigs to the men, fellows who watered the rum rations down to half strength, and sold the residue for their own profit, and others who gave the credit of a brave deed done to some rotter, and passed over in silence the real hero, because the rotter had friends in high places: he had known a man get a V.C. who ought to have been strapped to a gun-wheel and flogged, whilst the gallant fellow who had dared death for duty’s sake was falsely reported for shirking. In the ways of armies he was no tenderfoot, but a vista of new experiences opened up for him when he put on the blue coat, red breeches and peaked cap. He was a bit out of condition when he went out that first day, and had good cause to regret the fact. He fell in smartly enough, his big bony figure lance straight, his eyes and ears on the alert for orders. All the new recruits were treated as an awkward squad, though few of them had not passed through a drill sergeant’s hands in the lands they came from. As they fell into ranks, the sergeant in charge of them walked from man to man, sniffing each soldier as if he were so much cat’s meat of doubtful sweetness. When he had finished his first inspection, Sergeant Mechlin, known to the Legion by the sobriquet of the Goat, because he had a face with a tuft of hair on his chin that made him look the living replica of a he-animal of the goat species, and an infernally bad tempered one at that, passed his opinion of the new draft, and it was not complimentary.

“Offal,” he sniffed. “Not the making of a real soldier in the whole batch. A paper-legged, sour-bellied lot of gutter-sweepings. Madre de Dios, how can the Colonel expect even me to make anything of such pigs?” Then he roared in a voice that sounded as if it had been trained in a tube and squeezed through the belly of a bellicose bull: “Silence in the ranks, you sons of unmentionable mothers!”

Not a man had spoken or moved, but the Goat had a habit of inventing faults, as McGlusky was soon to discover. Once more the Goat inspected them, and then, throwing up his hands in a gesture of hopeless eloquence, he spat at them:

“Ma foi, what brought such scum as you here? Why could you not remain where you belonged, and live on the shame of your sisters?”

McGlusky’s choleric temper rose red hot at this vile insult, and he growled to the man on his left, a grandly made German:

“By th’ weddin’ breeks o’ ma sainted mither, eef A had yon sergeant in my twa han’s a mile frae barracks, A wad ram him head first inta his ain horse, an’ pull him oot o’ its mooth by his moustaches.”

The German, who was a good fellow and a fine soldier, as so many Germans are, looked at McGlusky’s giant frame out of the corners of his eyes, and chuckled as he whispered in his broken English:

“Dot vould be one dam fine journey for dot sergeant, but me I vould be sorry for de horse.”

Fortunately for the pair of them, the Goat had turned his back on the lines after he had tossed his uncalled-for insults at the men.

For hours after that he worked them, until even McGlusky’s steel-knit limbs were all a-tremble with over-exertion. He marched them at the double, halted them with a bark that brought them to a standstill as stiff as ramrods, and then sent them off at a run with a young and active corporal as pacemaker. Right round the barrack square the corporal took them at a heart-breaking pace, and every man was in full kit. When they reached him, the Goat roared:

“Halt—right about face—fix bayonets—c-h-a-rge!”

The squad, gasping for breath after their rapid run in the burning glare of an African sun, obeyed the Goat’s snarling orders to the best of their ability. They charged right across the square with bayonets held low and level, and there was not one who did not think he had done well, until the Goat came amongst them; then they learned that in his seasoned opinion they were only fit to fetch and carry for second-class daughters of the scarlet woman.

“S-o-l-d-i-ers,” he jeered. “If I were Colonel instead of sergeant, I would drive you to the barrack gates an’ kick you through them. S-o-l-diers—you are not fit to dig latrines for real soldiers.”

“Yon mon’s a leear; we didna dae sae bad,” whispered McGlusky to the German.

“Ach, he is ter teufel, but do you nod speak; he is one that hears mit his eyes.”

The German was right: the Goat had not heard, but he had seen the lips of the two men move, and in the Légion d’Afrique that was a punishable offence. With a roar the Goat was upon them.

“These jackals have too much wind; run it out of them.”

He addressed his words to a fresh corporal, and his finger indicated the German and McGlusky.

Round and round that great barrack square the devil of a corporal, who carried nothing but his side arms, raced the two giants, loaded with pack mules, whilst out in the middle of the square the sergeant drilled and bullied the rest of the squad until they were choking with the dust and heat, and blinded by their own sweat. The fourth time round the square, the corporal fell out, pumped, and a lance-corporal took his place, until the two toiling men in full kit were plodding with staring eyes, white drawn lips and bursting lungs. McGlusky, man of many trails as he was, felt all the power going out of his steel and whipcord legs: his feet seemed to him to weigh a ton each. He glanced at the splendid young German giant running along beside him, saw froth at the corners of the hard-clenched mouth, saw also cast-iron courage printed on the man’s face; then human nature having reached its limit, the young giant stumbled and fell flat on his face, and he lay where he fell. Mac half halted to render aid.

“Get on, you swine. Forward. March.”

The lance-corporal gave that order, taking his cue from the Goat, for he knew the ordeal was intended to break the spirits of the two who were under punishment. The indomitable spirit of Mac rose within him; he would go on until his lungs burst, before he would crave quarter. Up went his big chin, and then for a few strides he fairly pranced as he ran, but his face was grey, his mouth wide agape; he looked like a man running from a lost battle to bear tidings of woe and disaster. Just as he got opposite the gates, two officers rode through and saw him. A quick glance told the senior officer that the running man had reached his limit, and a sharp command rang out from his lips:

“Halte-là!”

Like a steer that has been shot, McGlusky stopped in his tracks, reeling and gasping; then the stubborn will of the man asserted itself over the weakness of the flesh and the dizziness of the brain; with head held high and shoulders squared he faced round and stood to attention. There were only two horsemen in front of him, but he could see fifty, like a man with a brain gorged with strong drink.

Major Ducroix sat in saddle and looked him over with eyes that were fierce and implacable. The Falcon, the men of the Legion had dubbed him, because of those eyes of his which missed nothing and misread but little. The Falcon half opened his mouth to put a question, but in that moment McGlusky, without a sound or a warning hint, crashed to the hard earth. A little half-smile crept round the slit in the Falcon’s face which he called his mouth. Looking from McGlusky to the other side of the big parade ground where the German soldier still lay like a log, he slightly raised his eyebrows, and then, turning his face to his mounted companion, he said almost tonelessly:

“There are two down. Our good friend the Goat grows more worthy of his nom de guerre every day.”

The first lieutenant thus addressed, shrugged his slender shoulders ever so slightly, and watched his superior’s face; he, at all events, was not deceived by the toneless voice and impassive manner. The Falcon sat in saddle, tapping one of his riding-boots lightly with his riding-whip, watching McGlusky’s prone figure the while.

On the arrival of the mounted officers the Goat had dispatched three or four men to pick up the German recruit; now he was crossing the parade-ground with four more at his heels to where the officers and McGlusky were, and it was worth noticing that the Goat was coming at the double. Reaching Mac’s side: the Goat snarled:

“Pick up that malingerer and march him to the cells.”

The men obeyed, but Mac could not march; he hung like a leaden thing in the arms that were crooked in his.

The Goat saluted the Major, and smiled ingratiatingly up into the impassive face that might have been modelled out of tanned leather for all the sign of anger or annoyance it displayed; then, jerking a thumb in the direction of McGlusky’s retreating figure, the Goat said sneeringly:

“Stratagème, mon officier.”

Again the Falcon merely raised his eyebrows; he was evidently a person who did not pride himself upon his eloquence.

“A pair of soudrilles, monsieur,” continued the Goat. “Cunning rascals, both; they would have contaminated the whole squad, but I took them in time, yes. They are only shamming now, both of them. Just a little run, once round the square, that was all I gave them, to teach them not to malinger.”

He smiled as he lied, the good sergeant, and his officer read him like a printed book; it takes a really good liar to deceive an experienced officer.

“Is that so, sergent? Just one little run in full marching kit round the parade-ground? You are getting too soft-hearted with the men; do not let me have to complain of such slackness on your part again, sergent.”

An expression of unbridled relief swept over the sous-officier’s ugly face; for once he had fooled even the Falcon, and with two half-dead men as evidence against him; he was proud of himself, the good sergeant.

The easily deceived Major shook his bridle rein, and cantered across the parade-ground, followed by the first lieutenant. Drawing rein in front of a corporal who had the squad marking time, the Major said in his cold, dispassionate manner:

“Corporal, how many times did the two recruits run round the parade-ground? No lies!”

The last two words shot from his lips with something of the sound of boiling steam escaping from a vent.

The corporal was between the devil and a mad dog, and he knew it; he simply dared not lie, for he did not know how much the Major knew. His motto in life was sauve qui peut, and he acted upon it.

“Nine times, monsieur.”

“Ah!”

That was all the Falcon said, and rode away. When the pair had dismounted, however, he tossed a command at the lieutenant.

“Tell the sergeant to report to me immediately—tout de suite.”

A few moments passed, and then the Goat put in an appearance; he had heard nothing of the Major’s inquiry concerning his truthfulness; all he had heard was the lieutenant’s curt order:

“Report yourself immediately to the Major.”

He was not easy in his mind, that good sergeant, but according to custom, he was determined to carry things off with a swagger, which is a very good substitute when you have nothing else to fall back upon.

The Falcon was writing a report when the Goat arrived, and did not even look up when the non-com. presented himself, which was chilling, to say the least of it, but the Goat had a fair share of nerve of his own, as he had proved when he had stood his trial in Paris seven years before for the cold-blooded murder of his mistress. On that occasion he had saved himself from being shaved by the guillotine by his cool nerve and his audacity; no one had doubted his guilt, but the ultimate proof was lacking. So he stood, pulling at the tuft of coarse hair on his chin, waiting for his officer to notice his existence. The Falcon finished his writing, carefully blotted the written sheets, then looked at the Goat.

“Four years you have served under me.” That was all he said, and then leaned back in his chair, eyeing the Goat as if he had been part of the meagre furniture of the room. “Is my memory a good one, sergeant?”

“Four years and seven months, monsieur, and I have tried to please monsieur.”

“Yet you lied to me to-day.”

“But no, monsieur; I call the Blessed Virgin to witness, never have I dared to lie to you.”

“I must be getting old, sergeant, and past my usefulness; I thought I knew a lie when it was thrown in my teeth.”

“I swear by my patron Saint, monsieur——”

The Falcon held up one lean, sun-baked hand palm towards the non-com.

“You are a liar, sergent, and the oath of a liar is of no more use than his simple word.”

The sweat began to break out upon the Goat’s upper lip in big beads; he had told so many lies, and he did not know which one was coming home to him.

“If it is over the matter of the fodder for monsieur’s horse—” he began.

“No, it is not that, though I guessed you had cheated me.

“The contractor was a thief, monsieur. He——”

“They all are, sergent; so, for that matter, are most men. An honest man is the rarest work of God.”

“If monsieur is referring to the little matter of the wine and cigars, I swear by the soul of my mother who is in heaven——”

“Is your mother in heaven, sergent? If she is then the gates of mercy must be very wide. I was in Paris at the time of your trial, when you escaped the guillotine by a miracle, and it came out then that your sainted mother kept a house that was not frequented by—er—angels.” Suddenly the purring note left the Falcon’s voice, and in its place came the snap his soldiers knew, when ranks were breaking and the enemy were closing in. “You lied to me about the two men you did your best to kill to-day. If I report you to the Colonel, you will be broken to the ranks again, and be sent to the régiment du diable, and there are men in that regiment of the damned who do not love you, my sergeant; you would not sleep very soundly amongst them; broken sous-officiers who are sent to the régiment du diable have a trick of waking up with their throats cut, is it not so, eh?”

Under the most favourable circumstances, the Goat would not have been described as a handsome man, but now, with his face the colour of badly made tallow that has gone bad through long storage, he was the reverse of good looking. Saliva ran from the corners of his mouth and dribbled on to his peaked beard; his long, yellow teeth showed between his lips; his arms hung limply by his sides. Again the Major spoke.

“In many ways you are a most useful man to the regiment. You have intelligence, when you care to use it, and you know your duties. It takes a long time to make a competent sous-officier, fit for the Légion d’Afrique. I am going to commit a breach of the regulations. You can go straight from here and report to the Colonel, if you think fit; it may cost me a step, but it will send you, sergeant, to the régiment du diable.”

Rising from his chair without haste, the Major picked up his riding-whip, and as the Goat knew, there was a thin, flexible length of steel running down inside the webbing of that whip. With a cutting stroke of that weapon, a rider could bring a weal as thick as a man’s finger all down the flank and under the belly of a horse, and a horse’s hide is tougher, far tougher, than the hide of a man. The Major drew the whip through his long flexible fingers; then, with a swift stroke, he made it whistle through the air; it may have been a musical whistle, but it brought no joy to the heart of the Goat.

“Close the door and lock it; it is good for the discipline of the men to see—er—episodes like this.”

The Goat obeyed, and then the Falcon flogged him. The whip did not mark the non-com.’s face, the Falcon took care of that, but there was little of the rest of his anatomy that remained unscathed, for he had received a merciless beating.

The sergeant fixed his bloodshot eyes upon the face of the officer, and there was unspoken murder in his baleful gaze, and the Falcon read and interpreted it.

“Yes, mon ami,” he remarked calmly; “I know all you are thinking and all you are registering in your soul you will do to me if and when your chance comes. No one knows better than do I that it was not an enemy bullet that sent Captain Aunjet to his account at the little affair at Gulgan Pass last spring; someone in the regiment put that bullet into him, and you are promising yourself you will do as much for me, eh? Well, I will take my chance. Perhaps,” he added, “you would like to do it now?” As he spoke, he lifted a heavy revolver from a shelf, and tossed it on the table near the Goat’s hand. “It is loaded in every chamber,” he purred, “and you are not a bad shot, sergent, though you might be better.”

The Goat’s hand shot out and clasped the ugly-looking weapon, and the Falcon almost imperceptibly braced himself, as if to meet the shock of the big soft-nosed bullet he knew rested right under the hammer of the big pistol. He was a brave man, that Major, and in those seconds his life hung on a spider’s thread. The Goat paused.

“Well?”

It was the Falcon’s voice, steady, low, dominating, that broke the stillness. The weapon slipped from the Goat’s fingers to the floor.

“Not here, eh? Some other time, perhaps, when you can kill and escape detection. You are easy to read, mon ami. Well, go now, and attend to duty, and see that the men under you do theirs; I will have no slacking; work them as they should be worked, but by God, if you kill good men for nothing, and I know it, I will give you a living death.”

When McGlusky got over the heart-breaking gruelling the Goat had given him, he went back to duty. It was on the eve of the same day, and his eyes were bloodshot as if he had been on a week’s carouse; his knees still trembled under him, and his hands shook as with the palsy. Fritzel, the stalwart young German, could not resume duty for three days, and when he did arrive, he looked like a man who had passed through a fever, and there was a dazed expression in his eyes. Mac was cleaning his accoutrements that first night, when the man who had given him his first bit of trouble in the Legion came to him.

“So,” he jeered, “how you like the Legion now, eh, recluta?”

Mac made no reply, and the fellow thought his spirit had been broken.

“You fight with me,” continued the fellow, “an’ me I whip you like a dog; then you pay that son of a swine, the Rat, to fight me, eh?”

“A didna pay anyone tae fecht ye; A dae ma ain fechtin’, as ye’ll fin’ oot as soon as ma strength comes back. Ye kickit ma unner the lug, which A was na expectin’ a mon wad dae. Bide a wee—A’ll kick ye sae hard an’ sae often, A’ll make yr hair sprout like spring onions.”

The fellow snapped his fingers in Mac’s face.

“You are one big bag of wind, one big liar. You pay the Rat, else how is it he, who had no money, is now drunk and lying in the clink? The Rat had gold; he changed some of it at the café of Lisette, who was once a vivandière; with the Chasseurs she served, the little Lisette.”

“A’m no wantin’ tae hear aboot the wumman; A’m no th’ sort tha’ runs after th’ sluts.”

“The sluts?” almost roared the fellow. “You dare call the little Lisette a—a slut? Ma foi, there are twenty men in the Chasseurs d’Afrique who will run you through the brisket if you say that in her café. She is still the toast of the regiment, an’ still beautiful, an’ the most graceful dancer in Africa.”

“The toast o’ the regiment, eh?” sneered Mac. “A’ll wager ma teeth your little Lisette hae been mair than a toast. A chuck unner th’ chin an’ saxpence an’ a dram is a’ th’ coortin’ her sort needs. A’m na wumman’s fule, but A’m a wee bittie interested in wha’ ye say aboot th’ Rat hae’in’ gold tae change. Air ye sure aboot tha’? A’d like somethin’ mair than yr bare word, ma son, fr though A nivver gie pain tae any mon, A’m forced tae th’ conclusion ye’re a leear frae yr feet tae yr face, an’ yr face wad hang ye in any decent company.”

Possibly the fellow had been told something like that so many times in life, that hearing it once more did not offend him, for he only grinned.

“Ye mak’ ma sick in ma wame,” remarked Mac, with a baleful glare in his bloodshot eyes.

“You givea the gold to the Ring Rat: he beata me up.”

“How much gold did ye say th’ Rat had?” growled Mac.

“He breaka one golden Napoleon at the café of the little Lisette, an’ he getta drunk lak hell, an’ he wanta fight all the Chasseurs d’Afrique in the café an’ he kees an’ kees the little Lisette, an’ he give her six more Napoleons to mind. All the soldiers trust the little Lisette with their money; she ees one bon camarade, Lisette. By an’ bye, when the Rat come out of clink, he go to her, an’ she give him back his gold. P’raps she keep a leetle for the kisses; that is only fair, eh? Lisette, she must live, eh?”

McGlusky was not listening to the latter part of this speech; he was glaring in front of him, and his mouth was working wordlessly. By and bye, however, he found speech.

“Th’ son o’ Belial, th’ offspring o’ th’ w—— o’ Babylon, th’ lineal descendant o’ th’ impenitent thief; he were begotten by Judas, an’ papped on th’ milk frae th’ dugs o’ Sapphira, th’ wife o’ Ananias. Gin A come tae grups wi’ him an’ lock these twa arms aroon’ him, A’ll squeeze his conscience oot o’ him. Seven golden Napoleons—seven—Napoleons! Whereaboots dae ye say is th’ café o’ th’ hissy Lisette?”

“What you makea the noise for? To-morrow the Goat he tie your han’s to the tail of a horse, an’ he run you till the blood burst your lungs—see?”

“Dom th’ Goat an’ dom yersel’. It were seven golden Napoleons A had in ma claes when ye kickit ma unner ma lug, an’ th’ Ring Rat got th’ lot, got a’ th’ immense wealth while A lay sleepin’. May th’ Lord fergit ma, Jamie McGlusky, eef A dinna reclaim ma ain. Te’ Lord kens A’m an honest mon. A worked like a galley slave tae get an’ save tha’ gold tae keep ma in a few wee sma’ luxuries in th’ Legion, till A had a chance tae loot some mair frae a heathen Arab, an’ noo it’s gied tae a hissy by a thief.”

“Bah, why you talk the foolish talk? Lisette will not surrender it to you; if you prove the Rat stole it, she will keep half an’ give him half.”

“She will na. A’ll no’ be rough wi’ th’ Jezebel; A’m a gentleman, an’ na gentleman can be rough wi’ a wumman theeng. A’ll tie her toes tae her chin wi’ her ain hair, an’ carry her on ma arm like a basket o’ beans, till she disgorges th’ plun’er. Wae’s me—eef eet had na been fr yer ainsel’, ye kickin’ cast-off frae a mule farm, A wad na hae supped a’ this sorrow.” Mac held the heavy belt he had been cleaning in his hand; as he rose, he gave the stiff leather a half turn round his palm, and swung it, and all the rage that was seething within him went into his arm. “Kick ma unner th’ lug, will ye, ye spawn o’ indecency? Tak’ th’ an’ tha’ a-n’ th-a’.” Three times he heavy buckle thudded on the meddler’s carcass, and three times the barrack-room resounded to his yells. “Noo,” bellowed Mac, “dinna tarry. A’ll be losin’ ma temper th’ noo, an’, ye beastie, eet’s ma turn tae keeck.”

The other fellow did not tarry for any appreciable length of time, but for all that he did not get out of range until the lift of McGlusky’s boot gave him a start, which he felt he could have done without and then been satisfied.

As McGlusky lay upon his hard pallet that night, the men sleeping near him heard him growling like a dog guarding a bone, and every now and again they heard him grinding his teeth, and the sound was like gravel on glass.

“He’s got a tile loose in his roof, that one; his sort kill first, and think of the firing-party and the back against the wall afterwards. Me, I am going to give him lots of room,” whispered François Delemar, the drummer, to the man on the next pallet.

“Me too,” answered his crony. “The big fellow is Scotch, and all the Scotch are mad when they take to fighting and drinking and running loose amongst the women.”

“They’re worse when they take to religion,” retorted the drummer. “Remember that one we had with us in the spring campaign two years ago? He was a bon camarade until he got converted, then he was the devil; nothing would do him but he must convert the whole Legion; said he had a call from the Lord to turn us all from our sins; called himself the ‘Broom o’ th’ Almichty,’ with a mission to sweep the world clean. He would fight, that one, fight at the drop of a hat, to prove he had a mission for peace. We were all glad when little Jacques Raffino ran him through and gave him to God. I think this one who calls himself McGlusky will take to religion in the end; if he does, me I am go loco an’ chase butterflies, an’ swear they are angels, and get sent to the régiment du diable. It will be Tophet with the bottom burnt out in that regiment, but it will be better than life with a mad devil of a Scotchman with a mission.”

All eyes were fixed surreptitiously upon McGlusky as he went on parade next morning. How would he face the Goat? That was the question that was agitating all minds. Not a soul but the sergeant and the Falcon knew of the ordeal the Goat had gone through; had they done so, the stern, grim, unyielding discipline of the Legion would have been at an end. McGlusky was stiff, sore and aching, but had he known it, the Goat was in like case, being a mass of weals all over; he had slept in his clothes the previous night, so that none of his brother non-coms. should see the state of his lacerated body.

When Mac met the sergeant, he drew himself up and stood like a figure wrought of stone, but his eyes, which were still gorged with blood, sought the non-com.’s eyes, held them and hung on to them, and the Goat, who now hated this recruit with a devil’s hate, glared back. If it had not been for the lesson the Falcon had given the Goat, that savage stare would have cost McGlusky dear. He had fully expected something in the way of punishment, but had determined, come what might, he would not quail or look submissive, for his spirit was not broken, it was steeled. The Goat broke the ominous silence.

“Fall in, you big baboon, and learn to keep silence in the ranks.”

With head carried high, and big, square chin thrust out aggressively, Mac fell in, and a little ripple of astonishment ran along the ranks, and McGlusky went up a good many notches in the estimation of his comrades. Had he cringed to the Goat, they would have held him in contempt; had he run amok they would have counted him a fool. He had done just the right thing under the circumstances: he had carried himself like a soldier who had been unjustly punished, but knew his duty, and duty is the only word that counts in any army with all ranks.

For six weeks the awkward squad knew what work meant. The Colonel was a martinet; he expected every man under his command to be able to go through the most intricate movements in the drill in his sleep, if need be, and as the Colonel’s wrath fell upon the commissioned officers when anything went wrong, they in their turn were unsparing with the sous-officiers, and the latter gave the men in the ranks no mercy. It was a great, big, splendid fighting machine, and had to be perfect in every cog. The Colonel always measured the strength of every regiment by its worst or weakest man, and he was right; a weak link is the measure of the strength of a chain, so the worst soldier had to be drilled up to the standard of the best, and the best was very high in the Légion d’Afrique. In those six weeks McGlusky was magnificent on parade: his pride in himself, in his strength, his powers of endurance, his adaptability to new circumstances and surroundings, and in his shrewd brain force was aroused. Always quick on the uptake, he absorbed instruction as sun-baked soil absorbs rain-water. Every nerve and sinew was keyed so high that he could at last almost anticipate an order before it came snapping from an officer’s mouth, but for all his good work he knew that the Goat had no use for him. That officer showed his dislike in ten thousand ways, on any and every possible occasion; he tried to catch McGlusky tripping—over-eagerness was as much a fault as dullness—and many a trap the Goat set for the big dour man, who day by day was growing more greyhound-like about the flanks, and more springy upon his toes. If at the end of that almost murderous six weeks the Goat had set Mac and the big, handsome young German legionary the same task he had set them on the first day, they would have jumped away and done it, and could at the finish have marched off the parade-ground whistling. The difference lay in the fact that they had been systematically worked up to a state of superb condition, whereas at the outset their stomachs, lungs, hearts and muscles were altogether unequal to such a tremendous strain. Even at the end of that period of purgatory they were not nearly up to the Legion’s standard, but they were fit enough to be considered “soldiers”; only the long and terrible forced marches out in the desert, on half rations and quarter water supply could or would put the final polish on them, that, and a hunt on foot, over rocks and through thorn bush country at the pace a jogging horse cannot stand for long, in pursuit of fleet-footed, wily marauders who would run and dodge all day and snipe half the night.

But if Mac made a good impression on the commissioned officers on the training-ground, he did not make much headway in barracks amongst his comrades, nor did he seek so to do. During the first week the Ring Rat, by judicious bribing, had managed to get so good a report of himself to reach the lieutenant’s ears, that he was allowed out of the clink to which he had been sentenced for drunkenness. Arriving in barracks, he at once sought out McGlusky, who was busy polishing his side-arms. The Rat had no idea that the big fellow had any suspicion of his guilt in connection with the missing seven Napoleons.

“Wot ho, matey! Blimey, you look as ’appy as an ’en wiff ’er first hegg. They told me in th’ clink th’ Goat ’ad busted yer pore ’eart.”

The Cockney scamp embalmed these remarks with a smile that he meant to be ingratiating, but his wicked face looked like the face of a vicious terrier on a chain. Mac waved a dignified hand in his direction.

“Gang yr ways; ye dinna smell sweet in ma nostrils. Ye’re na a mon, ye’re a—a polecat. Awa’ wi’ ye, an’ dinna again put yersel’ between the wind an’ ma nobeelity. Ye air an egg tha’ hae’ been half hatched an’ then thrown on a midden tae gie it a flavour.”

An expression of mingled astonishment and wounded friendship dawned upon the cadaverous face of the Ring Rat.

“You ain’t ’arf a horator when you pulls the bung hout, big ’un; ’Yde Park or Trafalgar Square orter be your stampin’-ground. Wot’s makin’ you turn on yr friends, eh?”

“A’ve telt ye. Noo remove yersel’. Ye dinna smell any better than ye look, an’ ye look wha’ ye air, a pocket picker. Ye’d hold the can’le whiles yer ain mither was earnin’ a shillin’ at a whelk stall, an’ ye’d—pinch th’ shillin’.”

Clip—clip. The Ring Rat had struck twice, and so quickly that eye could scarce follow the blows; each one sent Mac’s head back with a jerk, but he did not go down; his cast-iron jaws could stand heavier artillery than the Ring Rat could bring into action. Stepping back, he shouted:

“Ye loosey thief! A’ll no hit ye: A’ll squeeze ye doon inta yer ain breeks an’ boots, an’ button what’s left o’ ye inta them, an’ then kick ye till ye stick tae th’ ceilin’, or ye gie ma back ma wealth—seven golden Napoleons.” His voice broke into a wail. “It’s awfu’ tae think o’—it’s awfu’.”

Light dawned upon the Ring Rat in that moment; he knew that someone had discovered his guilt, and had put McGlusky wise, but this did not bring the flush of shame to his peaked visage, he was too hardened a sinner for that.

“Well, old hayseed,” he chortled, “wot abart it? Hi’m mindin’ hit for yer, ain’t Hi, takin’ care ov it for th’ good o’ your poor little soul, keepin’ you away from th’ women an’ the lush, ain’t Hi? Luv me, Hi only want a black coat an’ a ’igh collar to be a A1 philanthropist. Put yr ’ands hup, an’ Hi’ll punch yer big top-knot hoff.”

Mac crouched suddenly, and as suddenly he sprang and, clutching the Rat in his big arms, he drew the thin, wiry figure close to his own brawny chest, and hugged like a bear.

In vain the Ring Rat jolted him on the jaw with both hands; Mac held him too close for the Rat to put much power into his punches. The Rat was dead game, but what can the gamest man do when a grizzly bear hugs him? The Rat tried to use his knee, but McGlusky knew that trick, and had a stop for it.

“Gouge him, Rat, gouge him,” shrieked the drummer, but the advice was of no avail. The Rat’s pear-shaped head, with its scanty hair, began to loll back between his shoulders; his thin lips drew apart from his dirty and discoloured teeth; his tongue came out a couple of inches as his spine bent under the inexorable pressure, until with a strangled sob his lean, slender body wilted.

“A’ ma wealth—seven—golden—Napoleons.” These words came gritting savagely through McGlusky’s teeth. “An awesome lot o’ siller, an’ a’ o’ it sweated for.”

Grabbing the now limp form in his big hands as he spoke, McGlusky seized the Rat’s breeches at the waistband, and putting a knee to the top of the Rat’s shoulder, he began to pull and push, and such a terrific volume of strength did he put into the operation that the Rat’s figure began to shrink by inches in length.

“A—said—A’d push—ye inta yr—boots an’ breeks, an’ ma certie—A wull—an’ th’ deil himsel’ will na straighten ye oot again. Ye gied ma the han’ o’ friendship after ye’d robbed ma. Ye took me up to take me down. A’ll no leave moisture enough in ye tae mak’ spittle tae wet a sore eye.”

All the time he was growling out his rage, he was pressing the weight and might of his giant frame on the doubled-up anatomy of the Rat.

Then the whole room fell upon McGlusky. It was like a wolf-pack gone hunger-mad, crowding upon a stag. They hit him with everything except the ceiling. His cold-blooded ferocity had at first over-awed them, and besides, the Rat was not a popular citizen with his comrades; his uncanny skill in purloining loose change or anything else he took a fancy to, had not endeared him to them, but to see him crushed remorselessly as McGlusky had crushed him, stirred some latent impulse of pity in the pack. The Rat had fought beside them out in the grey desert, and had displayed the unblenching courage of a paladin, a trait they all knew how to appreciate; he had always been cheerful under hardships, and had sung indecent songs to cheer them when footsore and weary they limped across the burning sands, and at night in bivouac he had told in his queer Cockney French stories that made them laugh, stories that, had he been under the jurisdiction of a bench of bishops, would have got him flogged to a frazzle. He was a born droll, that bit of gutter scum, and his idea of decency would have sent a dissipated tom-cat out of the marriage market into a home for celibates, but he could make them laugh even when they were on the edge of the desert madness, and were sombrely thinking of putting a bullet into some officer, and saving another for themselves.

He had one other trait that did not march with his evil qualities: more than once he had been known to share the last drop of lukewarm water in his kit bottle with some poor devil who had got a ragged slug of lead from an Arab gun in his body, which had turned his blood to fire with gun-shot fever, a form of fever which has to be experienced to be fully appreciated. It was told of the Rat in the Legion that on one occasion when moved by the devil of impudence which was his heritage, as it is the heritage of most of his class, he had wormed his way right up to the Colonel’s bivouac and looted the C.O.’s water-bottle almost from under his hand, and had sneaked away in the darkness with his prize, which he shared with three wounded men. All the regiment knew that if he had been caught in the act, a pistol bullet would have been his on the spot. Yet when the Legion got safely back to headquarters, one of the first things the Rat had done was to pinch from one of the three wounded men a small silver ship containing a charm against ill-luck, which the other soldier wore round his throat by a thin gold chain. When charged with the crime, he stoutly denied it, but added:

“Hi would ’a took it hif I’d ’ad a chanct, just ter keep th’ blinkin’ idjit from puttin’ ’is faif in idols.”

It was for those reasons that the whole room full of legionaires fell upon McGlusky and dealt with him after the manner of their kind.

The funniest thing connected with this episode was the Ring Rat’s attitude towards McGlusky afterwards. Commenting upon the disturbance the next day, the Bomb remarked to the Rat:

“Ma foi, heem, that big bull, he squeeze you up like one sardine, Ring Rat. Santa Maria, heem, he would have break all your bones eef we not give him the boot. Yes. What he want is one nice leetle push with the knife just above the hip, him—just about three inches of the steel an’ a half turn before it come out, yes, by damn.”

“I dunno abart that, matey,” grinned the Ring Rat. “Once I fought a Scotch tyke in Glasgow, wiv the mittens, you know, an’ I beat ’im so easy it was a shime to ’it ’im, but Hi ’ad to do it to get the spondulicks, so Hi took pity on ’im an’ pushed ’im through the ropes; ’e fell on his pore ’ead on the floor six feet below. We was usin’ the same dressin’-room, an’ as I was strollin’ round that dressin’-room, thinkin’ ov nuffink but the lovely chimes ov the church bells in London, I haccidentally got me ’and in the pocket ov the pants the Scotch wop ’ad left ’angin’ hup in the dressin’-room, an’ Hi near fell dead when Hi found ’arf a crown. Fink of a Scotchman leavin’ ’arf a crown lyin’ loose to take care ov its pore little self in a fightin’ man’s dressin’-room! No, hit wasn’t Jimmy Wilde’s ’arf-crown: th’ great Jimmy was Welsh, not Scotch—same fing, only more ov it. If it ’ad been Jimmy’s ’arf-dollar an’ ’e ’ad to leave it, ’e’d ’ave bored a ’ole through it an’ put it on a lock an’ chain; no one ever got ahead ov Jimmy. When that Scotch wop woke up an’ missed ’is money, ’e sailed into me wiff all the bally furniture in the place, an’ ’e ’ad ’arf the population ov Glasgow to ’elp ’im. Hif,” sighed the Ring Rat reminiscently, “hif it ’ad been a dollar an’ a ’arf, ’e’d ’ave ’ad all Scotland, includin’ th’ police force an’ th’ fire brigades. There’s four things you mustn’t meddle wiff when you’re dealin’ wiff a Scotchman: one’s whisky, the other’s a woman, the next two are religion an’ money. When a Scotchman wants to fink ’ard abart Gord, ’e borrers a sovereign an’ looks at it, an’ then his ’eaven opens, an’ it’s time for everyone else to get a hike on an’ quit. So I’m not sore wiff McGlusky; ’e’s Scotch an’ ’e only acted up to ’is lights, an’ ’e ain’t goin’ to get no little bit o’ steel pushed into ’im just above the ’ip by me. Hi takes wot Hi can lay me hooks upon when the angels sends it, an’ Hi puts hup wiff wot Hi cawn’t dodge when th’ devils brings it, an’ hif that big bloke ain’t the devil, ’e’ll do fine fr a pattern fr a new one.”

During the time the recruits were going through their preliminary training they had not been permitted to pass the barrack gates; this was no great hardship, for when night came they had all been too dog weary to want to do anything but rest, but when they became full-fledged soldiers their drill, though still terribly stiff, was not quite so hard as it had been, and the lure of the town was upon them. The very first night they got their permits, McGlusky and Fritzel, the German, marched out, moving in step with just the right amount of swagger to justify their gay and gallant uniforms. Fritzel was about the only man Mac was on speaking terms with; his fierce, unbendable temper had estranged everyone else. Half a dozen times the Ring Rat, who seemed to have taken an uncanny fancy to the big fellow whom he had despoiled, tried to make up to the Scot, but every time he approached with the olive branch extended, Mac had either aimed a vicious kick at him, or had hurled anything that was portable and handy at the Cockney’s ever-shifting head.

“Hi likes ’im, crucify me hif Hi don’t,” the Rat had confided to the drummer. “There’s no ’arf water, ’arf milk abart ’im. Hi’ll steal ’is ’eart yet.”

To which the drummer, who had sampled half the prisons in France for burglary, had answered with a wicked grin:

“You’d steal a squeak from a mouse, camarade, if you could sell it for a drink,” to which the impenitent one had answered:

“Wy not, cully? Wot’s th’ good ov a squeak to anyone, anyway? Too many squeakers in this dam’ ole world. Parsons squeak abart ’ell, an’ hif there wasn’t no ’ell, they’d be hout ov a job, anyhow; lawyers squeak about lor, an’ get a bloke ‘time’ that a lot o’ lawyers oughter be doin’ their little sweet selves; reformers squeak abart ’onesty an’ a noble soul, an’ give a ’ungry bloke a trac’ an’ a lot ov hadvice about ’ow ter go strite, an’ leave ’im shiverin’ an’ ’ungry enough ter fight a dog fer a bone an’ then go ’ome to ’ot buttered muffins, an’ a scrumptious little plump woman in snow white frilly things like th’ froth on a pint, an’ she squeaks to ’im abart ’is self-sacrifice in th’ cause o’ darntrodden ’umanity. To ’ell wiff squeaks! Wot Hi likes abart this big Scotch baboon is there hain’t no squeak in ’im: ’e’ll fight till ’is ’ands break, an’ then ’e’ll bite, an’ don’t you fergit it, you cross between a French poodle an’ a darncin’ master: that McGlusky is th’ stuff th’ British hempire was made hout ov, an’ th’ British hempire ’as licked ’arf the world an’—an’ pinched near everythink worth pinchin’, an’ when you’ve pinched enough, you get respectable an’ everyone that wants ter borrer something loves yer. See?”