The Wages of Virtue Part 8

"Body of Bacchus, what is this?" he cried. "Cannot I move without treading in _vidanges_? Get beneath the bed and out of my sight, _cauchemar_!"

But far from retreating as bidden, the undersized c.o.c.kney rose promptly to his feet with a surprised and aggrieved look upon his face, hitherto expressive only of puzzled bewilderment.

"'Ere! 'Oo yer fink you're a kickin' of?" he enquired, adding with dignity, "I dunno' 'oo yer fink you _are_. I'm 'Erb 'Iggins, I am, an'

don't yer fergit it."

That Mr. Herbert Higgins stood rubbing his injured shin instead of flying at the throat of the Italian, was due in no wise to personal fear, but to an utter ignorance of the rank, importance, and powers of this "narsty-lookin' furriner." He might be some sort of an officer, and to "dot 'im one" might mean lingering gaol, or sudden death.

Bitterly he regretted his complete ignorance of the French tongue, and the manners and customs of this strange place. Anyhow, he could give the bloke some lip in good old English.

"Bit too 'andy wiv yer feet, ain't yer? Pretty manners, I _don't_ fink!

'Manners none, an' customs narsty's' abart your mark, ain't it?"

But ere he could proceed with further flowers of rhetoric, and rush in ignorance upon his fate, the huge hand of the American fell upon his shoulder from behind and pressed him back upon his cot.

"h.e.l.lo, Loojey dear! Throwin' bouquets to yerself agin, air yew?

Gittin' fresh agin, air yew, yew greasy Eye-talian, orgin-grindin', ice-cream-barrer-pushin', back-stabbin', garlic-eatin', street-corner, pink-spangled-tights ackerobat," he observed in his own inimitable vernacular, as he unwound his long blue sash preparatory to dressing for the evening.

"Why don't yew per*chase* a barrel-orgin an' take yure dear pal Malvin along on it? Snakes! I guess I got my stummick full o' yew an'

Mon-seer Malvin some. I wish yew'd kiss yureself good-bye, Loojey. Yew fair git my goat, yew fresh gorilla! _Oui, vous gagnez mon chevre proprement_."

"_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?_" asked Rivoli, his contemptuously curled lips baring his small, even teeth.

"Keskerdee? Why, yep! We uster hev a bunch o' dirty little'

keskerdees' at the ol' Glowin' Star mine, way back in Californey when I was a road-kid. Keskerdees!--so named becos they allus jabbered 'Keskerdee' when spoke to. We uster use their heads fer cleanin'

fryin'-pans. 'Keskerdee' is Eye-talian--a kind o' sorter low French,"

observed the Bucking Bronco.

It is to be feared that his researches into the ethnological and etymological truths of the European nations were limited and unprofitable, in spite of the fact that (like all other Legionaries of any standing) he spoke fluent Legion French on everyday military matters, and studied Italian phrases for the benefit of Carmelita. The Bucking Bronco's conversational method was to express himself idiomatically in the American tongue, and then translate it literally into the language of the benighted foreigner whom he honoured at the moment.

The Italian eyed the American malevolently, and, for the thousandth time, measured him, considered him, weighed him as an opponent in a boxing-wrestling-kicking match, remembered his uncanny magic skill with rifle and revolver, and, for the thousandth time, postponed the inevitable settlement, misliking his face, his mouth, his eye, and his general manner, air, and bearing.

"Give some abominable 'bleu' the honour of lacing the boots of Luigi Rivoli," he roared, turning with a contemptuous gesture from the American and the c.o.c.kney, to his henchman, Malvin. Fixing his eye upon the swarthy, spike-moustached Austrian, who sat at the foot of the bed opposite his own, he added:

"Here, dog, the privilege is thine. Allez schieblos"[#] and thrust out the unlaced boots that Malvin had pulled on to his feet.

[#] A curious piece of Legion "French" meaning "Be quick."

The Austrian, squatting dejected, with his head between his fists, affected not to understand, and made no move.

"_Koom. Adji inna. Balek! fahesh beghla,_"[#] adjured the Italian, airing his Arabic, and insulting his intended victim by addressing him as though he were a native.

[#] "Get up. Come here. Take care! You ugly mule."

The Austrian did not stir.

"Quick," hissed the Italian, and pointed to his boots that there might be no mistake.

The Austrian snarled.

"Bring it to me," said the great man, and, in a second, the recruit was run by the collar of his tunic, his ears, his twisted wrists, his woolly hair, and by a dozen willing hands, to the welcoming arms of the bully.

"Oh, thou deserter from the _Straf Bataillon_,"[#] growled the latter.

A sudden grab, a swift twist, and the Austrian was on his face, his elbows meeting and overlapping behind his back, and his arms drawn upward and backward. He shrieked.

[#] Penal battalion.

A quick jerk and he was on his feet, and then swung from the ground face downward, his wrists behind him in one of Rivoli's big hands, his trouser-ends in the other. Placing his foot in the small of the Austrian's back, the Italian appeared to be about to break the spine of his victim, whose screams were horrible to hear. Dashing him violently to the ground, Rivoli re-seated himself, and thrust forward his right foot. Groaning and gasping, the cowed Austrian knelt to his task, but, fumbling and failing to give satisfaction, received a kick in the face.

Reginald Rupert dropped the cartridge-pouch which he was polishing, and stepped forward, only to find himself thrust back by a sweep of the American's huge arm, which struck him in the chest like an iron bar, and to be seized by Legionnaire John Bull who quietly remarked:

"Mind your own business, recruit.... _C'est la Legion_!"

No one noticed that the Russian, Mikhail, was white and trembling, and that his brother came and led him to the other end of the room.

"Bungler! _Polisson_! _Coquin_! Lick the soles of my boots and go,"

cried Rivoli, and, as the lad hesitated, he rose to his feet.

Cringing and shrinking, the wretched "blue" hastened to obey, thrust forth his tongue, and, as the boot was raised, obediently licked the nether surface and the edges of the sole until its owner was satisfied.

"Austria's proper att.i.tude to Italy," growled the bully. "Now lick the other...."

Le Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli might expect prompt obedience henceforth from le Legionnaire Franz Joseph Meyer.

Standing in the ring of amused satellites was the evil-looking _Apache_, a deeply interested spectator of this congenial and enjoyable scene.

His hang-dog face caught the eye of the Italian.

"Come hither, thou _blanc-bec_," quoth he. "Come hither and show this _vaurien_ how to lace the boots of a gentleman."

The Apache obeyed with alacrity, and, performing the task with rapidity and skill, turned to depart.

"A nimble-fingered sharper," observed the Italian, and, rising swiftly, bestowed a shattering kick upon the retreating Frenchman. Recovering his balance after the sudden forward propulsion, the _Apache_ wheeled round like lightning, bent double, and flew at his a.s.sailant. Courage was his one virtue, and he was the finest exponent of the art of b.u.t.ting in all the purlieus and environs of Montmartre, and had not only laid out many a good bourgeois, but had overcome many a rival, by this preliminary to five minutes' strenuous kicking with heavy boots. If he launched himself--a one-hundred-and-fifty pound projectile--with his hard skull as battering-ram, straight at the stomach of his tormentor, that astounded individual ought to go violently to the ground, doubled up, winded and helpless. A score of tremendous kicks would then teach him that an _Apache_ King (and he, none other than Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat, _doyen_ of the heroes of the Rue de Venise, Rue Pirouette, and Rue des Innocents, _caveau_-knight and the beloved of the beauteous Casque d'Or) was not a person lightly to be trifled with.

But if Monsieur Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat was a _Roi des Apaches_, Luigi Rivoli was an acrobat and juggler, and, to mighty strength, added marvellous poise, quickness and skill.

"_ca ne marche pas, gobemouche,_" he remarked, and, at the right moment, his knee shot up with tremendous force and crashed into the face of the b.u.t.ting _Apache_. For the first time the famous and terrible attack of the King of the Paris hooligans had failed. When the unfortunate monarch regained his senses, some minutes later, and took stock of his remaining teeth and features, he registered a mental memorandum to the effect that he would move along the lines of caution, rather than valour, in his future dealings with the Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli--until his time came.

"_Je m'en souviendrai_," said he....

An interesting object-lesson in the effect, upon a certain type of mind, of the methods of the Italian was afforded by the conduct of a Greek recruit, named Dimitropoulos. Stepping forward with ingratiating bows and smiles, as the unfortunate M. Tou-Tou was stretched senseless on the floor, he proclaimed himself to be the best of the _l.u.s.troi_ of the city of Corinth, and begged for the honour and pleasure of cleaning the boots of Il Signor Luigi Rivoli.

Oh, but yes; a _l.u.s.tros_ of the most distinguished, look you, who had polished the most eminent boots in Greece at ten _leptas_ a time. Alas!

that he had not all his little implements and sponges, his cloth of velvet, his varnish for the heel. Had he but the tools necessary to the true artist in his profession, the boots of Il Ill.u.s.trissimo Signor should be then and thenceforth of a brightness dazzling and remarkable.