A swaggering, strutting Sergeant emerged from the neighbouring regimental offices, roared "Garde à vous," brought the recruits to attention, and called the roll. As prophesied by Legionary John Bull, the whole draft was assigned to the Seventh Company, recently depleted by the desertion, en masse, of a cafard-smitten German escouade, or section, who had gone "on pump," merely to die in the desert at the hands of the Arabs—several horribly tortured, all horribly mangled.
Having called the roll, this Sergeant, not strictly following the example of the Sergeant of the Guard, looked the draft over more in anger than in sorrow.
"Oh, Name of the Name of Beautiful Beelzebub," bawled he, "but what have we here? To drill such worm-casts! Quel métier! Quel chien d'un métier! Stand up, stand up, oh sons of Arab mothers and pariah dogs," and then, feigning sudden and unconquerable sickness, he turned upon the Corporal in charge with a roar of—
"March these sacred pigs to their accursed sties."
As the heterogeneous gang stepped off at the word of command, "En avant. Marche!" toward the Quartermaster's store of the Seventh Company, it was clear to the experienced eye that the great majority were "Back to the army again," and were either deserters, or men who had already put in their military service in the armies of their own countries.
In the store-room they were endowed by the Fourrier-Sergent, to the accompaniment of torrential profanity, with white fatigue-uniforms, night-caps, rough shirts, harsh towels, and scraps of soap. From the store-room the squad was "personally conducted"
