John Bull, despite his years and grey hairs, blushed painfully.
"Sorry," he grunted.
"But indeed, Monsieur speaks most interestingly and with eloquence. Pray continue," said Mikhail with diffident earnestness.
John Bull looked still more uncomfortable.
"Do go on," said Rupert.
"Oh, that's all," replied John Bull. … "But we are the cheapest labourers, the finest soldiers, the most dangerous, reckless devils ever gathered together. … The incredible army—and there's anything from eight to twelve thousand of us in Africa and China, and nobody but the War Minister knows the real number. You're a ha'penny hero now, my boy, and a ha'penny day-labourer, and you're not expected to wear out in less than five years—unless you're killed by the enemy, disease, or the Non-coms."
"Have you ever regretted coming here?" asked Rupert, and could have bitten his tongue as he realised he had asked a personal and prying question.
"Well, I have re-enlisted twice," parried the other, "and that is a pretty good testimonial to La Légion. I have had unlimited experience of active service of all kinds, against enemies of all sorts except Europeans, and I hope to have that—against Germany[1]—before I've done."
"But what about all the Germans in the Legion, in that case?" enquired Rupert.
"Oh, they wouldn't be sent," was the reply. "They'd all go to the Southern Stations, and the Moroccan border, or to Madagascar and Tonkin.
- ↑ Written in 1913.—Author.
