lar Canteenair is a woman with horse-sense an' two eyes in 'er 'ead. She wouldn't look twice at a boastin', swankin', fat-slappin', back-stabbin', dime-show ackerobat,' I ses. 'Yure Loojey flaps 'is mouth too much. Il frappe sa bouche trop,' I ses. But I didn't tell her as haow 'e's amakin' up ter Madam lar Canteenaire all his possible. She wouldn't believe it of 'im. She wouldn't even believe that 'e goes ter the Canteen. I only ses: 'Yure Loojey's a leary lipper so don't say as haow I ain't warned yer, Carmelita honey,' I ses—an' I puts it inter copper-bottomed Frencho langwago also. Yep!"
"What did Carmelita say?" asked John Bull.
"Nix," was the reply. "It passes my comprehension wot she sees in that fat Eye-talian ice-cream trader. Anyhaow, it's up ter Hiram C. Milton ter git upon his hind legs an' ferbid the bangs ef she goes fer ter marry a greasy orgin-grinder … serposin' he don't git Madam lar Canteenair," and the Bucking Bronco sighed deeply, produced some strong, black Algerian tobacco, and asked High Heaven if he might hope ever again to stuff some real Tareyton Mixture (the best baccy in the world) into his "guley-brooley"—whereby Legionary John Bull understood him to mean his brûle-gueule, or short pipe—and relapsed into lethargic and taciturn apathy.
"How would you like a prowl round?" asked John Bull, of Rupert.
"Nothing better, thank you, if you think I could pass the Sergeant of the Guard before being dismissed recruit-drills."
"Oh, that'll be all right if you are correctly dressed. Hop into the tunic and red breeches and we'll try it. You're free until five-thirty to-morrow morning, and
