less than an actual, real and genuine scrubbing-brush, beautiful in its bristliness. Then righteous anger filled his soul.
"Saligaud!" he hissed. "These pigs of filthy Germans! Soap and a brush. Sacripants! Ils me dégoutant à la fin."
As he regarded the stolid German with increasing envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness, and cast about in his quick and cunning mind for means of relieving him of the coveted brush, a sudden roar of wrath and grief from his Alsatian partner, Dupont, sent Schnitzel running to join that unfortunate man in fierce and impartial denunciations of his left-hand and right-hand neighbours, who were thieves, pigs, brigands, dogs, Arabs, and utterly merdant and merdable. Bursting into the fray, Herr Schnitzel found them, in addition, bloedsinnig and dummkopf in that they could not produce cakes of soap from empty mouths.
As the rage of the bereaved warriors increased, more and more Pomeranian and Alsatian patois invaded the wonderful Legion-French, a French which is not of Paris, nor of anywhere else in the world save La Légion. As Dupont fell upon a laughing Italian with a cry of "Ah! zut! Sacré grimacier," Schnitzel spluttered and roared at a huge slow-moving American who regarded him with a look of pitying but not unkindly contempt. …
"Why do the 'eathen rage furious together and imagine a vain thing?" he enquired in a slow drawl of the excited "furriner," adding "Ain't yew some schafs-kopf, sonny!" and, as the big German began to whirl his arms in the windmill fashion peculiar
