LITMIR.BIZ

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and the crowd closed in. If the doi struck, they would hack and tear this foreign devil to pieces.

      With a weeeep of steel on steel the bayonet cleared the scabbard and the doi struck at his captor's throat as John Bull sprang forward. But the sound of the drawing of the bayonet had an extraordinary effect on the MacSnorrt—and it was with the weapon held only in his left hand that the doi struck—and missed. Seizing him by the throat with both huge hands the Légionnaire scrambled to his feet and used him as a battering-ram in his headlong roaring drive at the closing knife-drawing crowd.

      With a yell of "Ye dommed dirrty Jael!" he wrenched the bayonet from the little Annamese and flung him head-long as the crowd gave back.

      John Bull sprang to his side, and the two in a whirling, punching, struggling plunge fought their way to the gate, burst through it—and were promptly arrested by the picket, opportunely passing.

      With these new enemies the MacSnorrt did further battle, until a tap on the head from a Gras rifle in the skilful hands of Sergeant Legros brought him to that state in which he was perhaps best—unconsciousness.

X. "Belzébuth"

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      We were heavy sportsmen (à l'Anglaise) at Bellevue at that time. Not only did we lay out a race-course, but we imported hounds and performed the Chasse au renard. We got up point-to-point races and paperchases. There were actually Ladies' races, and some folk went so far as to talk about pig-sticking.

      "Of course, Madame Merlonorot will ride when she comes out to Algeria?" asked Madame Paës.

      "Dieu! Rather!" replied Colonel Merlonorot of the Zouaves. "I am on the look-out for a good thing for her now. She wants all the equine perfections embodied in one Arab pony. Won't keep a string.... Too much bother.... Must have won a good race or two, must have been hunted by a lady, must hack quietly in both saddles, must trap, and be trusted to take no exception to camels, Arab music, whirling dervishes, or fireworks. Also he must make the promenade in the governess-cart upon occasion! What?"

      "It's a far cry from the race-course to the governess-cart, isn't it?" inquired Madame Paës.

      "Yes. But she'll expect me to produce all that in the next month—and not to spend more than about three thousand francs! ... Let's know if you hear of anything that might meet most of the requirements—and available within the month, will you, dear Madame? Must be a racer, though—and that limits the field when you're looking for a hack.... She's great on Ladies' Point-to-Points, Hunt-races, Chasse au renard, and everything you can do on a horse. She would play le polo and would pursue the pig with a spear if I would consent!"

      "I will remember, Colonel—and I have an idea.... Three thousand francs for a pony that meets all the specifications?"

      "About that, and a thousand thanks. Must be young, thoroughbred, and something to look at—and be vetted sound all over, of course." ...

      Three thousand francs! It would mean Home this year instead of next. Paris in Spring! It would mean avoiding the awful prostrating heat of la canicule for the babies—neither of them robust, both of them showing the signs of French babyhood kept too long in Africa's forcing-house. It might mean life to one or both of them, especially with the usual cholera, smallpox, typhoid, and dysentery epidemics about, as they grew weaker. And Guillaume needed his long-overdue leave badly. He was overworked, run down, ill, and his temper—never very good—was getting unbearable. Fancy having leave and being too poor to take it! What a shame it was that the condition of the majority of married junior officers of the XIXth Army Corps should be one of cruel grinding poverty, pitiful shifts to keep up appearances, and a weary, heart-breaking struggle to make ends meet. Well, one must "drag the lengthening chain" and, having once clasped it on, must take the consequences. One can't start life afresh in France at thirty odd—and, well, one can always hope, or nearly always. And one might win a prize in the Lottery. (Think of it! One's chief hope for a brighter future, a chance of winning a prize in the Lottery!) ... Three thousand francs!

      But young Belzébuth had never run a race in his life and never taken part in the Chasse au renard nor the pursuit of the spear-threatened pig, unless, perhaps, when he had had an English master in Maroc. Still, he was a real picture, was rising seven, sound as a bell, quiet as a mouse, and undoubtedly thoroughbred.

      He hacked in both saddles and was a fast and steady trapper—and took the babies for an airing daily. Certainly he had a turn of speed—and there was simply no tiring him.

      He would take Guillaume (a very bad and nervous rider) for a ride in the morning, and in the trap to the barracks after breakfast. He would bring him home to lunch, and then take the babies for their drive in the evening.

      Sometimes he would finish up the day by taking the trap to a distant villa when a dinner-party was toward. And when Guillaume was away on manoeuvres or marches, Madame Paës, horse-woman born and bred, got her only riding.

      Three thousand francs! And Guillaume had bought him for two hundred francs when Lieutenant d'Amienville—who ought not to be allowed to keep a pig or a pariah dog, much less a horse—went away. Starved, neglected, and dying for want of work, Belzébuth had looked a bad bargain at 200 fcs. A man ought not to go unprosecuted who buys a horse and uses a motor-car, leaving the horse to the mercy of a rascally homard who feeds it on offal and never takes it out of the stall. Her heart had ached when she had seen the staring coat, blear eye, and overgrown hoofs of the walking skeleton that Lieutenant d'Amienville swore had cost him, raw, a couple of thousand francs. She could have hung her sun-hat on him in a dozen places. But she knew a good horse when she saw one. Had not her father run his own horses at Longchamps and Auteuil before he went bankrupt?

      And, under her care, Belzébuth had soon changed into a picture of bright, sleek, healthy happiness, and had served them exceedingly well.

      Could she make him worth three thousand francs before Guillaume returned from manoeuvres, sell him to Colonel Merlonorot (her father's old comrade), and put the money into Guillaume's hand, saying, "Book the passages for Marseilles to-morrow, mon ange."

      Could she? For, the utmost screwing and scraping, the most optimistic view of the saleable value of the few goods and chattels, the estimating the cheapest and nastiest journey to Paris—left a gaping chasm of a good thousand francs between hope and realization of a holiday in La Ville Lumière. No, nothing could bridge it—unless Belzébuth would fetch three thousand francs instead of the three or four hundred they had expected. Five hundred was the highest Guillaume had ever dreamed of—and that was after a cheery dinner at some Mess and a little champagne.

      Even five hundred would be a profit of a hundred and fifty per cent. she believed.

      Yes—four hundred would be cent. per cent., and five would be half as much again.

      What would three thousand be on two hundred? Fifteen per cent.? No, of course not. Fifteen hundred per cent.? It sounded impossible.

      And of course it was impossible.

      Still—she would add five pounds of avoine daily to Belzébuth's blé and son, and start training him while Guillaume was away. She would join the club of the Chasse au renard at once, and she would enter for the Ladies' Race in the Desert Point-to-Point, which would be run just three weeks hence at Bellevue.

      But what a terrible plunge! A hundred francs to the cercle, and Heaven alone knew what oats were fetching. Or perhaps she could hunt three or four times only, and pay a small donation or something? And she could certainly avoid getting the Beaune that Médecin-Major Parme had ordered her to take, since she had had malarial fever, and use the money for oats. But what a speculation! It is an ill-wind that blows no good at all—the fever had reduced her weight, and she could ride at about seven stone now.

      But what would Guillaume say of the wasted money—if she failed? Well, it wouldn't be all waste, for Belzébuth's

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