faction in the thought. Still—until his successor were chosen, or rather, the successor of the late-lamented, so cruelly, if skilfully, carved by those sacrépans and galopins of Arabs—the assistance of the big man as waiter and chucker-out should certainly not be refused. By no means.
"And what is this tale I hear of you and le Légionnaire Jean Boule?" enquired Madame. "They say that the Neapolitan trollop of Le Café de la Légion (sous ce nom-là!) has begged your life of him."
The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and Rivoli put down his glass with a fierce frown.
"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he asked, and laughed scornfully. Madame pointed a fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who leant, head on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.
"Sure thing, Loojey. I'm spreadin' the glad joyous tidin's, as haow yure precious life has been saved, all over the whole caboodle," and proceeded to translate.
"Oh, is that the plot?" replied the Italian. "Is that the best lie the gang of you could hatch? Corpo di Bacco! It's a poor one. Couldn't the lot of you think of a likelier tale than that?"
The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was nuthin' like the trewth.
"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the assembled loungers. "This grey English cur—pot-valiant—comes yapping at me, being in his cups, and challenges me, me, Luigi Rivoli, to fight. I say: 'Go dig your grave, dog,' and he goes. I have not seen him since, but on all hands I hear that he has arranged with this strumpet of the Café to say that she has begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with
