“But, Sergeant,” moaned Toni, “I am afraid of the horse, I swear I am—”
The sergeant’s reply to this was to run toward Toni with uplifted whip. Old Caporal, supposing the whip was meant for him, suddenly broke into a furious gallop. Toni darted toward him, lighted like a bird with both feet on the horse’s back, folded his arms, stuck his right leg out as Caporal sped around the circle, changed to his left, turned a somersault, stood on his head on the horse’s back for a whole minute, and then with a “Houp-la!” flung himself backward to the ground, and, approaching the sergeant, stood calmly at attention. The roof of the riding-hall echoed with thunders of laughter and applause, Sublieutenant Verney leading off, capering in his delight, and pinching Powder to make him join his yelping to the uproar. The sergeant stood grinning with satisfaction. He was one of the few sergeants who wanted a man to ride well and cared very little what share of praise or blame accrued to himself in the doing of it.
“So you were in the circus?” he asked.
“Yes, Sergeant—ever since I was thirteen,” answered Toni, who had thrown off his stupid expression like a mask and stood up alert, cool, with a glint of a smile in his eye. Then he stopped. He had not forgotten those magnanimous offers made by the sergeant to his mother to marry her for the purpose of thrashing him. His old cowardice returned to him and he trembled at the idea of the coming recognition by the sergeant. He certainly would not consider a circus rider a match for Denise, who, by this time, must be a young lady.
The seven years which had changed Toni and Paul from boys into men, had apparently passed over the sergeant without leaving the smallest sign on him, but they had marked Toni so that Sergeant Duval so far had no idea that he was the Toni whom he had yearned to thrash.
A light had been breaking upon Paul Verney’s mind. There had been something strangely familiar in the awkward recruit. A thrill of remembrance swept over Paul Verney, but Bienville and Toni were far from his mind then, and besides, Toni, as a dirty, shock-headed boy, had been the personification of boyish grace, while this fellow had been the embodiment of awkwardness in walking as well as riding. But now things began to grow clearer. As for Toni, the old joy and love of Paul came over him with a rush. He straightened himself up, stood at attention, and turned his gaze full on the young lieutenant.
Paul came up close to him.
“Isn’t this—isn’t this Toni?” he asked.
For answer, Toni saluted and said, “Yes, sir.” He had learned enough, during his short enlistment, to say that. And then, surreptitiously opening his hand, Paul caught a glimpse of the old battered Jacques in Toni’s palm. He covered it up quickly again. Paul Verney could not trust himself with all the recruits standing by, and the riding lesson in progress, to say more than:
“Come to my quarters at twelve o’clock,”—and turned away.