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 Cockney 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 tittered.
"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 damned 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 damned papers. We get enough from Germany. So I shall make chicken jelly of you. See!"