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 chambrée 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 pêche 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
