face were set on a strong
throat. Chest and shoulders were immense, the arms too long, the
slightly bowed legs too short. Up went a sledgehammer hand, coated with
red hair, to scratch the heavy jowl contemplatively, and Max thought of
a gorilla.

"So you don't think I'm pretty, eh?" the boxer challenged him, and Max
started with surprise at sound of the Cockney accent, which came with a
hissing sound from the defaced mouth. Pelle was an Englishman!

The start was misunderstood, not only by the champion of the Legion, but
by the surrounding Legionnaires, who tittered.

"Sorry if I was rude," remarked Max, with an air of nonchalance, to show
that he was ready for anything.

"That's no way to apologize," said Pelle. "Don't look at me like that.
You'll have to learn better manners in the Legion."

"A cat may look at a king," retorted the recruit. "And as for manners, I
won't ask you to teach them to me."

"Why, you damned little Yankee spy, do you want to be pinched between my
thumb and finger as if you was a flea?" bellowed the boxer.

"Try it, and you'll find the flea can bite before he's pinched," said
Max. His heart was thumping, for despite his knowledge of _la boxe_ he
knew that he might be pounded into a jelly in another minute. This man
was a heavyweight. He was a lightweight. But whatever happened he would
show himself game; and at that instant nothing else seemed much to
matter.

Somewhat to his surprise, Pelle burst out laughing. "Hark to the
bantam!" he exclaimed in French--execrable French, but a proof that he
was no newcomer in the Legion. "If you weren't a newspaper spy, my
chicken, I'd let you off for your cheek. But we have heard all about
you. Lieutenant de la Tour of the Spahis knows. He's told every one. It
doesn't take long for news to get to the Legion. I'm going to teach you
not to write lies about us for your damned papers. We get enough from
Germany. So I shall make chicken jelly of you. See!"

"All right. Come on!" said Max, more cheerfully than he felt. For his
one chance was in his youth and the method he had learned from the
lightweight champion of the world.

A ring formed on the instant, to screen as well as to see the spectacle.
Here would be no rounds timed by an official, no seconds to encourage or
revive their men. The encounter, such as it was, would be primitive and
savage, asking no quarter and giving none. But Max felt that his whole
future in the Legion depended on its iss