was now a soldier of
the Legion, in white fatigue uniform, like all the rest: but the dark
face and night-black eyes had the same arresting, tragic appeal. After
this whisper, the Legionnaire drew back, his look asking for an answer
by nod or shake of the head. Max caught the idea instantly. "By jove!
the fellow has made up his mind to desert already!" he thought. "Why? He
hasn't the air of a slacker."

There was no language he could choose in this group made up from a dozen
countries, which might not be understood by one or all. The only thing
was to trust to the other's quickness of comprehension, as the speaker
had trusted to his. He held out his hand, exclaiming: "_C'est vous, mon
ami! Quel chance!_"

The ruse was understood. His handclasp was returned with meaning. Every
one supposed that _le bleu_ of four days ago and _le bleu_ of to-day
were old acquaintances who had found each other unexpectedly.

There was no chance for private speech. A quick fire of interrogation
volleyed at the three recruits, especially at Max. "Are you French? Are
you German? Are you from Switzerland--Alsace--Belgium--Italy--England?"
Questions spattered round the newcomers like a rain of bullets, in as
many languages as the countries named, and Max amused himself by
answering in the same, whenever he was able.

"How many tongues have you stowed in that fly-trap of yours, my child?"
inquired a thin, elderly Legionnaire with a long nose and clever,
twinkling eyes. No nation but Holland could have produced that face, and
it was unnecessary that the speaker should introduce himself as a
Dutchman. "Fourteen years have I served France in the Legion. I have
been to Madagascar and Tonkin. Everywhere I have found myself the
champion of languages, which is only natural, for I was translator in
the State Department at home--a long while ago. But if you can speak
eleven you will get the championship over me. I have only as many
tongues as I have fingers."

"You beat me by six," laughed Max, and the jealous frown faded.

"Encore un champion!" gayly announced the round-faced youth who had
jocosely asked Max if he were a Belgian. "Voila notre joli heros,
Pelle."

"Quatro oyos" ("Four Eyes") added a Spaniard. "Papa van Loo can beat you
with his tongue; Four Eyes beats with his fists."

Sauntering toward _les bleus_, with the manner of a big dog who deigns
to visit a little one, came a man of average height but immense girth.
His great beardless