As they neared the washing-shed, the bare idea of ablutions, or the idea of bare ablutions, appeared to strike consternation, if not positive terror, into the heart of at least one member of the squad, for the young Russian who had been addressed by his twin as Mikhail suddenly seized the other's arm and said with a gasp--
"Oh, Fedichka, how can I? Oh Fedia, Fedia, what shall I do?"
"We must trust in God, and use our wits, Olusha. I will..."
But a roar of "Silence, Oh Son of Seven Pigs," from the Sergeant, cut him short as they reached the shed.
"Now strip and scrub your mangy skins, you dogs. Scrape your crawling hides until the floor is thick in hog-bristles and earth, oh Great-grandsons of Sacréd Swine," he further adjured the wretched "blues," with horrible threats and fearful oaths.
"Wash, you mud-caked vermin, wash, for the carcase of the Legionary must be as spotless as the Fame of the Legion, or the honour of its smartest Sergeant--Sergeant Legros," and he lapped his bulging chest lest any Boeotian present should be ignorant of the identity of Sergeant Legros of the Legion.
Walking up and down before the doorless stalls in which the naked recruits washed, Sergeant Legros hurled taunts, gibes, insults, and curses at his charges, stopping from time to time to give special attention to anyone who had the misfortune to acquire his particular regard. Pausing to stare at the tall Englishman in affected disgust at the condition of his brilliant and glowing skin, he enquired--
"Is that a vest, disclosed by scrubbing and the action of water? Or is it your hide, pig?" And was somewhat taken aback by the cool and pleasant reply,
"No, that is not a new, pink silk vest that you see, Sergeant, it really is my own skin--but many thanks for the kind compliment, none the less."
Sergeant Legros eyed the recruit with something dimly and distantly akin to pity. Mad as a March hare, poor wretch, of course--it could not be intentional impudence--and the Sergeant smiled austerely--he would probably die in the cells ere long, if le cafard did not send him to the Zephyrs, the firing-platoon, or the Arabs. Mad to begin with! Ho! Ho! What a jest!--and the Sergeant chuckled.