voulez-vous? C'est la Légion," but, none the less, he had had enough, and more than enough, of Depôt life.
He sometimes thought of going to the Adjudant-Major, offering to provide proofs that he had been a British officer, and claiming to be placed in the class of angehende corporale (as he called the élèves Caporaux or probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion and a wider and different sphere of action.
There were reasons against this course, however. It would, very probably, only result in his being stuck in the Depôt permanently, as a Corporal-Instructor—the more so as he spoke German. Also, it was neither quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as he did not intend to spend more than a year in the Legion and was looking forward to his attempt at desertion as his first real Great Adventure.
He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of those who go "on pump," as, for no discoverable reason, the Legionary calls desertion. In every barrack-room there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into the hands of the Arabs and been tortured by their women. He had himself seen wretched deserters dragged back by Goums,[1] a mass of rags, filth, blood and bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the end of a rope attached to an Arab's saddle. Inasmuch as the captor got twenty-five francs for returning a deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and galloped with him to the nearest outpost or barracks. When the Roumi[2] could no longer run, he was quite welcome to fall and be dragged.
