"Say, John," he continued, turning to his friend, "she up an' axed me las' night ef he ever went ter the Canteen an' ef Madam lar Canteenair didn't ever git amakin' eyes at her beautiful Looje! Yep! It is time Loojey kissed hisself good-bye."
"Oh? What did you tell her?" enquired John Bull. "There is no doubt the swine will marry the Canteen if he can. More profitable than poor little Carmelita's show. He is a low stinker, and she's one of the best and prettiest and pluckiest little women who ever lived.... She's so débrouillarde."
"Wot did I say? Wal, John, wot I ses was--'Amakin' eyes at yure Loojey, my dear.' I ses, 'Madam lar Canteenair is a woman with horse-sense an' two eyes in 'er 'ead. She wouldn't look twice at a boastin', swankin', fat-slappin', back-stabbin', dime-show ackerobat,' I ses. 'Yure Loojey flaps 'is mouth too much. Il frappe sa bouche trop,' I ses. But I didn't tell her as haow 'e's amakin' up ter Madam lar Canteenaire all his possible. She wouldn't believe it of 'im. She wouldn't even believe that 'e goes ter the Canteen. I only ses: 'Yure Loojey's a leary lipper so don't say as haow I ain't warned yer, Carmelita honey,' I ses--an' I puts it inter copper-bottomed Frencho langwago also. Yep!"
"What did Carmelita say?" asked John Bull.
"Nix," was the reply. "It passes my com*pre*hension wot she sees in that fat Eye-talian ice-cream trader. Anyhaow, it's up ter Hiram C. Milton ter git upon his hind legs an' ferbid the bangs ef she goes fer ter marry a greasy orgin-grinder ... serposin' he don't git Madam lar Canteenair," and the Bucking Bronco sighed deeply, produced some strong, black Algerian tobacco, and asked High Heaven if he might hope ever again to stuff some real Tareyton Mixture (the best baccy in the world) into his "guley-brooley"--whereby Legionary John Bull understood him to mean his brûle-gueule, or short pipe--and relapsed into lethargic and taciturn apathy.
"How would you like a prowl round?" asked John Bull, of Rupert.
"Nothing better, thank you, if you think I could pass the Sergeant of the Guard before being dismissed recruit-drills."
"Oh, that'll be all right if you are correctly dressed. Hop into the tunic and red breeches and we'll try it. You're free until five-thirty to-morrow morning, and can do some more at your kit when we return. We'll go round the barracks and I'll show you the ropes before we stroll round Sidi-bel-Abbès, and admire the wonders of the Rue Prudon, Rue Montagnac, and Rue de Jerusalem. Our band is playing at the Military Club to-night, and the band of the Première Légion Étrangère is the finest band in the whole world--largely Germans and Poles. We are allowed to listen at a respectful distance. We'll look in at the Village d'Espagnol, the Mekerra, and the Faubourg des Palmiers another time, as they're out of bounds. Also the Village Négre if you like, but if we're caught there we get a month's hard labour, if not solitary confinement and starvation in the foul and stinking cellules--because we're likely to be killed in the Village Négre."
"Let's go there now," suggested Rupert eagerly, as he buttoned his tunic.
"No, my boy. Wait until you know what cellule imprisonment really is, before you risk it. You keep out of the trou just as long as you can. It's different from the Stone Jug of a British regiment--very. Don't do any rabiau[#] until you must. We'll be virtuous to-night, and when you must go out of bounds, go with me. I'll take you to see Carmelita this evening at the Café de la Légion, and we'll look in on Madame la Cantinière, at the Canteen, before the Last Post at nine o'clock.... Are you coming, Buck?"