I've only come to have a look round and learn a bit. Very keen on experiences, especially military ones."
"Merciful God!" ejaculated John Bull softly. "Out for experiences! You'll get 'em, here."
"Keen on seein' life, y'know," explained the young man.
"Much more likely to see death," replied the other. "Do you realise that you're in for five years—and that no money, no influence, no diplomatic representations, no extradition can buy, or beg, or drag you out; and that by the end of five years, if alive, you'll be lucky if you're of any use to the Legion, to yourself, or to anyone else? I, personally, have had unusual luck, and am of unusual physique. I re-enlisted twice, partly because at the end of each five years I was turned loose with nothing in the world but a shapeless blue slop suit—partly for other reasons. …"
"Oh! I've only come for a year, and shall desert. I told them so plainly at the enlistment bureau, in Paris," was the ingenuous reply.
The old Legionary smiled.
"A good many of our people desert, at least once," he said, "when under the influence of le cafard—especially the Germans. Ninety-nine per cent come to one of three ends—death, capture, or surrender. Death with torture at the hands of the Arabs; capture, or ignominious return and surrender after horrible sufferings from thirst, starvation and exposure."
"Yes; I heard the Legion was a grand military school, and a pretty warm thing, and that desertion was a bit of a feat, and no disgrace if you brought it off—so I thought I'd have a year of the one, and then a shot at the other," replied the young man coolly.
