and the Alsatian used his hands solely for purpose of throttling.
Why couldn't they stand up and fight like gentlemen under Queensberry rules, or, if boxing did not appeal to them, use their sword-bayonets like soldiers and Legionaries—the low rooters, the vulgar, rough-and-tumble gutter-scrappers.…
Removing his almost dry washing from the line, Sir Montague Merline marched across to his barrack-block, climbed the three flights of stone stairs, traversed the long corridor of his Company, and entered the big, light, airy room wherein he and twenty-nine other Legionaries (one of whom held the very exalted and important rank of Caporal) lived and moved and had their monotonous being.
Spreading his tunic and breeches on the end of the long table he proceeded to "iron" them, first with his hand, secondly with a tin plate, and finally with the edge of his "quart," the drinking-mug which hung at the head of his bed ready for the reception of the early morning jus, the strong coffee which most effectively rouses the Legionary from somnolence and most ineffectively sustains him until midday.
Anon, having persuaded himself that the result of his labours was satisfactory, and up to Legion standards of smartness—which are as high as those of the ordinary piou-piou of the French line are low—he folded his uniform in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths, placed it with the paquetage on the shelf above his bed, and began to dress for his evening walk-out. The Legionary's time is, in theory, his own after 5 p.m., and the most sacred plank in the most sacred platform of all his sacred tradition is his right to
