"My money is finished."
Smith's face grew long.
He was evidently thinking of the countless casks of wine lying stored in Sidi-bel-Abbès…. All at once his face cleared. He had found a way out of the difficulty.
"Send for some more!" he advised.
I shook my head.
"Nonsense," said the bugler, with the happy confidence of the Legion. "They'll send you some, a légionnaire always gets something sent him. Shall I help you to write a real, nice, touching letter, Dutchy?"
Again I shook my head. But the bugler would not let me off so easily. Going through the different grades of relationship, he inquired as to my connections. When I declared with intentional spitefulness that they were all as poor as church mice, he swore a little in Arabic and thoughtfully repeated a chapter of the Koran, treating of the duties of friendship. A little inspired by this, he asked for a whole hour about my former friends. I told him that they were either dead or on the point of starvation. The bugler thought this ridiculous, but with much tact did not continue the subject, coming, no doubt, to the conclusion that I had either killed somebody or robbed a bank in good old Germany. Nothing but that could keep a légionnaire from writing begging letters!
I let the philosopher keep his opinion.
After thinking deeply for a time, he muttered nothing but a resigned, "C'est la Légion."
After a while he asked: "And is there really nothing left?"