A Soldier of the Legion Part 13

"Quatro oyos" ("Four Eyes") added a Spaniard. "Papa van Loo can beat you with his tongue; Four Eyes beats with his fists."

Sauntering toward _les bleus_, with the manner of a big dog who deigns to visit a little one, came a man of average height but immense girth.

His great beardless face was so hideous, so startling, that Max gaped at him rudely, lost in horror. Nose and lips had been partly cut away. The teeth and gums showed in a ghastly, perpetual grin. But as if this were not enough to single him out among a thousand, a pair of black, red-rimmed eyes had been tattooed on the large forehead, just above a bushy, auburn line overhanging the eyes which nature had pushed deeply in between protruding cheek and frontal bones.

"Good heavens!" Max blurted out aloud; and the Dutchman cackled with laughter. "You're no Frenchman, boy!" he loudly a.s.serted in English.

"Now we've got at your own jargon. Go away, Mister Pelle, you're frightening our British baby. Or is it Yankee?"

An angry answer jumped to the tip of Max's tongue, but he bit it back.

So this living corpse was Pelle, the champion boxer of the Legion, who would fight the Frenchman!

The new recruit was ashamed of the sick spasm of disgust that closed his throat. He felt that it was a sign of raw youth and amateurishness, as when a medical student faints at first sight of the dissecting table. He feared that his face had betrayed him to these soldiers, many of whom had hardened their nerves on battlefields. Somehow he must justify himself, and force respect from the men who greeted Van Loo's cheap wit with an appreciative roar.

Pelle was the only one who did not laugh. He came lumbering along in silence as if he had not heard; but Max saw that the boxer was aiming straight for him. The newly christened St. George stood still, waiting to see what the dragon would do. Within three feet of the recruit the hero of the Legion came to a stop and looked the slim figure in civilian clothes slowly over from head to foot, as Goliath may sarcastically have studied the points of David. The whole group was hypnotized, enchanted, each man in white praying that it might be five minutes yet before the corporal returned to shepherd his three lambs. Much can happen in five minutes. Battles can be won or lost! and at anything Pelle might do, under provocation, the powers that were would wink. Not an officer below the colonel but had money on the match which was to come off in the barrack square to-morrow.

All four eyes of Quatro Oyos seemed to stare at the insignificant shrimp of a recruit. Max had but two eyes with which to return the compliment, but he made the most of them. Pelle was not only hideous: he was formidable. The big square head and ravaged face were set on a strong throat. Chest and shoulders were immense, the arms too long, the slightly bowed legs too short. Up went a sledgehammer hand, coated with red hair, to scratch the heavy jowl contemplatively, and Max thought of a gorilla.

"So you don't think I'm pretty, eh?" the boxer challenged him, and Max started with surprise at sound of the c.o.c.kney accent, which came with a hissing sound from the defaced mouth. Pelle was an Englishman!

The start was misunderstood, not only by the champion of the Legion, but by the surrounding Legionnaires, who t.i.ttered.

"Sorry if I was rude," remarked Max, with an air of nonchalance, to show that he was ready for anything.

"That's no way to apologize," said Pelle. "Don't look at me like that.

You'll have to learn better manners in the Legion."

"A cat may look at a king," retorted the recruit. "And as for manners, I won't ask you to teach them to me."

"Why, you d.a.m.ned little Yankee spy, do you want to be pinched between my thumb and finger as if you was a flea?" bellowed the boxer.

"Try it, and you'll find the flea can bite before he's pinched," said Max. His heart was thumping, for despite his knowledge of _la boxe_ he knew that he might be pounded into a jelly in another minute. This man was a heavyweight. He was a lightweight. But whatever happened he would show himself game; and at that instant nothing else seemed much to matter.

Somewhat to his surprise, Pelle burst out laughing. "Hark to the bantam!" he exclaimed in French--execrable French, but a proof that he was no newcomer in the Legion. "If you weren't a newspaper spy, my chicken, I'd let you off for your cheek. But we have heard all about you. Lieutenant de la Tour of the Spahis knows. He's told every one. It doesn't take long for news to get to the Legion. I'm going to teach you not to write lies about us for your d.a.m.ned papers. We get enough from Germany. So I shall make chicken jelly of you. See!"

"All right. Come on!" said Max, more cheerfully than he felt. For his one chance was in his youth and the method he had learned from the lightweight champion of the world.

A ring formed on the instant, to screen as well as to see the spectacle.

Here would be no rounds timed by an official, no seconds to encourage or revive their men. The encounter, such as it was, would be primitive and savage, asking no quarter and giving none. But Max felt that his whole future in the Legion depended on its issue.

CHAPTER XII

NO. 1033

For a second the contestants eyed each other.

A strange hush seemed to fall upon all, a situation always present in affairs of this kind. It was noticeable to Max. "It might well be said that a calm always preceded a storm," Max reflected, and then he heard a voice speak close to his ear.

He dared not turn his head for fear of a sudden onslaught by his antagonist, but even as low as the tone was, he recognized the voice--it was the same voice that had begged him stealthily for his civilian clothes!

"Beware of his foot," said the voice. "He's English, but he fights French fashion with la savate."

Max had not expected the savate from an Englishman, and he was very glad of the warning.

It flashed through his brain just what the terrible savate could accomplish--a lightning-like kick landing on the jaw of an adversary, being much more crushing and damaging than the hardest punch.

The warning came just in time, for he had only a brief chance to steady himself when Four Eyes rushed at him like a maddened bull.

As he neared Max he let go two terrific swings, first with his left and then with his right hand, but his smaller opponent side-stepped with the nimbleness of a cat, and Pelle rushed by two or three steps before he could stop.

At once he turned with a lithe movement, surprisingly graceful for a body so big, and made ready as though to once more swing his two flail-like fists.

Again did Max set himself to dodge Pelle's punches, but instead of letting his two hands fly, one after the other, he bent his huge body back from the waist, and at the same time shot his right foot upward toward the other's face.

It was a fearful kick, and had it landed on Max's jaw it would have ended the fight then and there, indeed, if it did not break his neck.

But that whispered warning about the savate was Max's salvation.

With a quick backward jerk of his head he saved himself--just barely saved himself--and the big foot shot harmlessly up into the air, Pelle almost losing his balance in the unsuccessful effort.

Before the latter could really regain his footing Max stepped in and, with left and right, landed full on his opponent's face, the last of the two punches coming flush on the nose with smashing force. It rocked the amazed Pelle back on his heels.

Moreover, the surprise at the force of the blow was not greater than the surprise at the sudden knowledge of the fact that the "Yankee Spy" was no bungling amateur, but that he had all the ear-marks of a skilled professional.

Well, he could not be fooled again, and on top of this thought came a heavy grunt as Max again stepped in and swung a swift right hook to his stomach and then jumped out of harm's way.

This blow took Pelle's wind and he began to dance around on his toes with the lightness of thistledown, despite his discomfiture, while all the time he watched the clever Max between half-closed eyes, waiting for another chance to deliver that awful kick where it would surely put the other out of business.

Now and then the big man would try an occasional swing at his elusive opponent, but it was more of an attempt to cover up his real intention rather than to land effectively. Well he knew that his best and quickest chance to end the fight lay in his ability to kick the other man insensible, and so he tried to fool and disarm Max by a bluff attack.

In this manner they danced about each other for a short s.p.a.ce; the American, apparently whenever he chose, stepped in and landed left and right on the other's jaw with a sound like the crack of a whip.

There was a snap to Max's punches, a snap that stung and made an impression, and so while the big man almost exploded with fury at the gruelling he had to go through as his graceful adversary jumped in and out and banged him, he still nursed his best blow--the murderous kick!--holding it in reserve until the right moment.

Finally, in the course of Max's punishing onslaught, in which he was leaping in and out with unceasing agility, he--stumbled! This was just what Pelle was waiting for, and then, like the fillip of a spring-board, the heavy boot went toward Max's head!

Though he saw it start, and though he swung his head back, Max could not escape it altogether, and it grazed his chin. For an instant the barrack yard and the white-clad ring of men swam before his eyes. It seemed as though an iron bolt had entered his chin and gone through the top of his head, but he did not quite lose all presence of mind, though he did bend away from the other until he almost fell on his own back.

Pelle saw his advantage and, with a yelp of joy, jumped forward and swung his other foot. As he did so reason returned to Max and with it came a blind rage at the other's unfairness.

With the quickness of a panther, and with the strength of ten men, he swung his slim body sideways and then bent forward to let go a vicious right-hand swing--flush to the other's jaw!

The kick missed Max--missed him by a hair--but the punch landed, landed with every ounce of bone and muscle behind it that Max had in his body.

Down crashed the champion on the back of his skull, with a thud amid a spatter of gravel!

For an instant the huge form lay still, while the ring of Legionnaires remained petrified. Suddenly the group realized that the fighting c.o.c.k had been beaten by the bantam.