upon his shoulder and the bayonet at his belt), and minced to and fro with a
feminine grace which suggested—at least to les deux citoyens of These
United States—the extremely authentic epithet "fairy." He had such a
pretty face! and so cute a moustache! and such darling legs! and such a
wonderful smile! For plantonic purposes the smile—which brought two
little dimples into his pink cheeks—was for the most part suppressed.
However it was impossible for this little thing to look stern: the best
he could do was to look poignantly sad. Which he did with great success,
standing like a tragic last piece of uneaten candy in his big box at the
end of the cour, and eyeing the sinful hommes with sad pretty eyes.
Won't anyone eat me?—he seemed to ask.—I'm really delicious, you know,
perfectly delicious, really I am.
To resume: everyone being in the cour, it was well filled, not only from the point of view of space but of sound. A barnyard crammed with pigs, cows, horses, ducks, geese, hens, cats and dogs could not possibly have produced one-fifth of the racket that emanated, spontaneously and inevitably, from the cour. Above which racket I heard tout à coup a roar of pain and surprise; and looking up with some interest and also in some alarm, beheld The Young Pole backing and filling and slipping in the deep ooze under the strenuous jolts, jabs and even haymakers of The Fighting Sheeney, who, with his coat off and his cap off and his shirt open at the neck, was swatting luxuriously and for all he was worth that round helpless face and that peaches-and-cream complexion. From where I stood, at a distance of six or eight yards, the impact of the Sheeney's fist on The Young Pole's jaw and cheeks was disconcertingly audible. The latter made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, let alone retaliate; he merely skidded about, roaring and clutching desperately out of harm's way his long white scarf, of which (as I have mentioned) he was extremely proud. But for the sheer brutality of the scene it would have been highly ludicrous. The Sheeney was swinging like a windmill and hammering like a blacksmith. His ugly head lowered, the chin protruding, lips drawn back in a
