Russians hand to the other the tunic and trousers which he had tried on. Apparently being as alike as two pins in every respect they had adopted the labour-saving device of one "fitting on" for both.
Having put on the képi, Mikhail bundled up the uniform, struck an attitude with arms akimbo, and inquired of the other—
"Do I look very awful in this thing, Fedia?"
"Shut up, you little fool," replied Feodor, with a quick frown. "Try and look more like a mujik in maslianitza,[1] and less like a young student at private theatricals. You're a Legionary now."
When, at length, the recruits had all been fitted into uniforms, and were ready to depart, they were driven forth with the heart-felt curse and comprehensive anathema of the Sergeant-Major—
"Sweep the room clear of this offal, Corporal," quoth he. "And if thou canst make a Légionnaire's little toe out of the whole draft—thou shalt have the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour—I promise it."
"En avant. Marche!" bawled the Corporal, and the "blues" were led away, up flights of stairs, and along echoing corridors to their future home, their new quarters. A Légionnaire, carrying a huge earthenware jug, encountering them outside the door thereof, gave them their first welcome to the Legion.
"Oh thrice-condemned souls, welcome to Hell," he cried genially, and kicking open the door of a huge room, he liberally sprinkled each passing recruit, murmuring as he did so—
"Le diable vous bénisse."
- ↑ The week before Lent, or "mad week," when all good mujiks get drunk—or used to do.
