At half-past five that evening, the Bucking Bronco entered le Café de la Légion and stared in amazement at seeing a strange Legionary behind Carmelita's bar. He was a small, slight man in correct walking-out dress--a blue tunic, red breeches and white spats. His képi was pulled well down over a small, intelligent face, the most marked features of which were very broad black eyebrows, and a biggish dark moustache. The broad chin-strap of the képi was down, and pressed the man's chin up under the large moustache beneath which the strap passed. The soldier had a squint and the Bucking Bronco had always experienced a dislike and distrust of people so afflicted.
"An' what'n Hell are yew a-doin' thar, yew swivel-eyed tough?" he enquired, and repeated his enquiry in Legion French.
The Legionary laughed--a ringing peal which was distinctly familiar.
"Don't yew git fresh with me, Bo, or I'll come roun' thar an' improve yure squint till you can see in each ear-'ole," said the American, trying to "place" the man.
Again the incongruous tinkling peal rang out and the Bucking Bronco received the shock of his life as Carmelita's voice issued through the big moustache. Words failed him as he devoured the girl with his eyes.
"Dear Monsieur Bouckaing Bronceau," said she. "Will you walk out to-night with the youngest recruit in the Legion?"
The Bronco still stared agape.
"I am in trouble," continued Carmelita, "and I turn to you for help."
The light of hope shone in the American's eyes.
"Holy Poker!" said he. "God bless yure sweet eyes, fer sayin' so, Carmelita. But why me? Have yew found yure Loojey out, at last? Why me?"