"Your name is Schneider?" the lieutenant asked. "Yes, sir." "Very well, in French your name is pronounced Snedr. Remember that!" "Yes, sir." "Sign your name here." The man signed. One after the other the new recruits were called to the little window, and each signed his name, without bothering to look at what he signed. I came last this time. The lieutenant gave me a sheet of hectographed paper, and I glanced quickly over its contents. It was a formal contract for five years' service in the Foreign Legion between the Republic of France and the man who was foolish enough to sign it. There were a great many paragraphs and great stress was laid on the fact that the "enlisting party" had no right upon indemnification in case of sickness or disability, and no claim upon pension until after fifteen years of service. "Have you any personal papers?" the lieutenant asked me suddenly. I almost laughed in his face--he was such a picture of curiosity. In my German passport, however, I was described as "editor," and I had a notion that this passport was much too good for an occasion like this. While searching my portfolio for "personal papers" I happened to find the application form of a life insurance company, with my name filled out. I gave this to the lieutenant with a very serious countenance. It was good enough for this. The officer looked at the thing and seemed quite puzzled. "Oh, that will do," he finally smiled, and gave me the pen to sign. I signed. And under my name I wrote the date: October 6, 1905. "The date was unnecessary," said the lieutenant. "Pardon me," I answered. "I wrote unthinkingly--it's an important date for me." "By God, you're right," said he. In single file we were marched to the barracks. One of the French soldiers who met us on the way stopped, and threw up his hands in laughing astonishment: "Eh!" And then, making a wry face, he yelled, in a coarse sing-song: "Nous sommes les légionnaires d'Afrique...." * * * * * Half an hour later three new recruits of the Foreign Legion, the recruit Schneider, the recruit Rader and the recruit Rosen, sat in a little room belonging to the quarters of the 31st French Regiment of Line. All three were Germans. Rader opened the conversation. "My name's Rader. Pretty good name, ain't it, though it isn't my name, of course. I might have called myself von Rader--Baron von Rader--while I was at it, but I ain't proud. What's in a fine name, I say, if you've got nothing to fill your stomach with? No, the suckers may call me Rader. My real name is Müller. Can't use it! Must have some regard for the feelings of my people...." "I mustn't hurt their delicate feelings," he repeated with a great roar of laughter.