I then thought of going to Boldini and saying:
"Kangaroos have a horrible kick, my friend," or, "Better not let me see you putting the light out, Boldini," or even frankly and plainly promising to kill him, if anybody attempted to rob my brother.
After pondering the matter and consulting Digby, who did not take as serious a view of it as I did, I had the bright idea of getting the advice of an older, worldly-wiser, and far cleverer person than myself--and appealed to Buddy.
What he did not know about crooks and the best ways of defeating them was not worth knowing, and his experiences in the Texas Rangers had been those of detective, policeman, watch-dog, and soldier combined.
I accordingly walked out one evening with Hank and Buddy, "set the drinks up" at the Bar de Madagascar off the Rue de Daya, and told them that I had excellent reason to believe that Boldini was arranging with Colonna and Guantaio to rob my brother, one night.
"My brother can look after himself, of course," said I; "but these curs have got hold of the idea that he has a marvellous jewel which we three have stolen. . . . What I'm wondering is whether Guantaio, who looks like a pucca Sicilian bandit, would stick a knife into him, to make sure of getting his belt. That's the only thing that worries me."
"Fergit it, son," was Buddy's prompt reply. "Those slobs would never do that. Don't trust each other enough, for one thing. Far too risky, for another. That sort of poor thieving boob wouldn't dare. Why, one drop of blood on his hands or shirt, or one yell outa your brother, an' he'd be taken red-handed."
"Shore," agreed Hank. "Not in barracks they wouldn't. Git him up a side-street and bash him on the head, more like. Anybody mighta done it there. Lots o' guys git done in for their sash an' bayonet in the village nègre, an' them low dives an' hash-joints in the Spanish quarter. . . . Don't let him go around alone, an' he's safe enough."
This was reassuring, and it was common sense. It would, of course, take a very cool, skilful, and courageous murderer to kill a man sleeping in a room with thirty others.
"I don't know so much," I said, arguing against myself and for the sake of complete reassurance. "Suppose Guantaio or Colonna simply crept to the bed and drove a bayonet through the blankets and through his heart. There'd be no bloodstains on the murderer . . ."
"Not when he started monkeying with the belt?" put in Buddy. "And wouldn't there be no sound from your brother? Not a cheep outa him? Fergit it, I say."
"Look at here, Bo," argued Hank. "Figger it was you agoin' to stick me. How'd you know where my heart was, me curled up under the blankets, and nearly dark an' all? How'd you know as everybody was asleep all right! How'd you know there wouldn't be noise? . . . Shucks! 'Tain't horse-sense. . . . Nope. These legendaries don't stand fer murder in the barrack-room, still less fer robbery, and least of all fer bein' woke up at night outa their due and lawful sleep." . . .
"See, boy," interrupted Buddy at this point, "that barrack-room is just your brother's plumb safest place. As fer his kohinoor di'mond, I allow he can sure look after that himself."
"Shore thing," agreed Hank.
"Absolutely," said I. "If there's no fear of his being murdered in his sleep, there's an end of the matter. I'd rather like Boldini to go and try to rob him."
"I wouldn't go fer to say as much as that, Bo," demurred Buddy. "I'd undertake to clear your brother out every night of his life--every cent outa his belt--and the belt likewise also, too. . . . P'r'aps Mister Cascara Sagrada could do as much," and we smiled, both thinking of the occasion upon which Buddy had "minded" my money or me.
"Look at here, Bo," said Hank at this. "I gotta little idee. Surpose I goes to Cascara an' ses to him, 'Pard,' I ses, 'if that English legendary, Willyerm Brown, No. 18897, gits robbed, I'm sure agwine ter do you an onjustice. I'm agwine ter beat you up most ugly. So's yer own father, if you had one, wouldn't know yer, an' yer mother'd disown yer,' or something discouragin' like that."
I thanked this large slow person, but declined, assuring him that we could take excellent care of ourselves, and I had only wanted to know if murder were a possible contingency.
"Not inside the barracks. Not till hell pops," said Buddy.
"Sure thing," agreed Hank. "But don't let him prowl around no boweries nor hootch-joints, on his lonesome. Nope."
"An' tell him from me that I'll mind his money-belt an' be responserble, if he likes," offered Buddy. "Then he can sleep free and easy like, an' also deal faithful with any guy as comes snooping around in the night, without having to waste time feeling if his gold-dust is there all right. . . ."
I again thanked him, changed the subject, and soon afterwards got them back to barracks, "a-settin' sober on the water-waggon, a credit to all men," as Hank observed.
And, this very night, there happened that which must have given certain gentlemen of our barrack-room to think, and to think seriously, of abandoning any schemes for their quick enrichment, had they been entertaining them.
I was awakened by a crash and a shout. . . . Springing up, instantly awake, I saw two men struggling on the floor near Michael's bed. The one on top, pinning the other down with a hand on his throat, was Michael. As I leapt from my bed, I was aware that the room was alive and that men were running with angry shouts to see what, and who, had broken their sacred sleep--a horrible violation of strictest Legion law.
"Wring the sneakin' coyote's neck, Bo," shouted Buddy.
"'Learn him to be a toad,' Beau," quoted Digby, and with cries of "Thief! Thief!" the wave of shouting, gesticulating men swept over the two and bore one of them to the surface. It was neither Guantaio nor Colonna, neither Gotto nor Vogué--one of whom I had fully expected to see.
White-faced, struggling, imploring, in the grip of a dozen indignantly outraged and savagely ferocious légionnaires, was a man from the next room.
I looked round for Boldini.
He was sound asleep in his bed! And so was Corporal Dupré in his, and with his face to the wall--both of them men whom the squeak of a mouse would awaken.
"What are you doing here, scélérat?" shouted half a score of fierce voices as the man was pulled hither and thither, buffeted, shaken, and savagely struck.
"Speak up, you Brown. What about it?" roared Schwartz, who had got the man by the throat. "Was he stealing?"
"On the table with him," yelled Brandt.
"Yes, come on. Crucify the swine," bawled the huge bearded Schwartz, shaking his victim as a terrier shakes a rat.
Hank, followed by Buddy, barged into the middle of the scrum, throwing men right and left.
"'Tain't one of Boldini's outfit," I heard Buddy say.
"Give the guy a fair trial," shouted Hank. "Lynchin' fer hoss-thieves an' sich--but give him a trial," and he seized the man himself. "Cough it up quick," he said to the terrified wretch, who seemed about to faint.
"Wait a minute," shouted Michael, in French. "He belongs to me. . . . He's had enough. . . ."
The crowd snarled. Several had bayonets in their hands.
"I lost my way," screamed the prisoner.
"And found it to the bed of a man who has money," laughed a voice. "Legion law! On the table with him!"
Michael jumped on the table.
"Silence, you fools!" he shouted. "Listen!" and the crowd listened. "I woke up and found the man feeling under my pillow. I thought he was somebody belonging to the room. Somebody I have been waiting for. Well--he isn't. Let him go--he won't come again. . . ."
At that there was a perfect yell of derision and execration, and Michael was sent flying by a rush of angry men.
While he, Digby, and I were struggling to get to the table, the thief was flung on to it and held down; a bayonet