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During the weeks which The Fighting Sheeney spent at La Ferte Mace, the non-existence of the inhabitants of The Enormous Room was rendered something more than miserable. It was rendered well-nigh unbearable. The night Rockyfeller and his slave arrived was a night to be remembered by everyone. It was one of the wildest and strangest and most perfectly interesting nights I, for one, ever spent.
The Young Pole, perhaps sore at being rolled on the floor of The Enormous Room by the worthy Sheeney, set about nagging him just as he had done in the case of neighbour Bill. His favourite epithet for the conqueror was "moshki" or "moski" I never was sure which.
But when coupled with the word "moskosi," accent on the second syllable or long o, its effect was more than unpleasant it was really disagreeable. At intervals throughout the day, on promenade, of an evening, the ugly phrase "MOS-ki mosKOsi" resounded through The Enormous Room. The Fighting Sheeney, then rapidly convalescing from syphilis, bided his time.
And a number of highly reputable spectators, such as Judas and The Fighting Sheeney himself, said it was The Young Pole's fault. "Allez! Au cabinot! De suits!" And off trickled the sobbing Young Pole, winding his great scarf comfortingly about him, to the dungeon. Some few minutes later we encountered The Zulu speaking with Monsieur Auguste. Monsieur Auguste was very sorry.
Our uncertainty was augmented by the confusion emanating from a particular corner of The Enormous Room, in which corner The Fighting Sheeney was haranguing a group of spectators on the pregnant topic: What I won't do to Precigne when I get there.
Of course they and The Fighting Sheeney had been using the common dipper and drink pail. Le gouvernement francais couldn't be expected to look out for a little thing like venereal disease among prisoners: didn't it have enough to do curing those soldiers who spent their time on permission trying their best to infect themselves with both gonorrhea and syphilis?
A charming fellow, The Fighting Sheeney. Now I must tell you what happened to the poor Spanish Whoremaster.
The porter was a creature whom Ugly does not even slightly describe. There are some specimens of humanity in whose presence one instantly and instinctively feels a profound revulsion, a revulsion which perhaps because it is profound cannot be analysed. The Fighting Sheeney was one of these specimens.
"Dat fat feller" bought enough at the canteen twice every day to stock a transatlantic liner for seven voyages, and never ace with the prisoners. I will mention him again apropos the Mecca of respectability, the Great White Throne of purity, Three rings Three alias Count Bragard, to whom I have long since introduced my reader. So we come, willy-nilly, to The Fighting Sheeney.
The Fighting Sheeney arrived carrying the expensive suitcase of a livid, strangely unpleasant-looking Roumanian gent, who wore a knit sweater of a strangely ugly red hue, impeccable clothes, and an immaculate velour hat which must have been worth easily fifty francs. We called this gent Rockyfeller. His personality might be faintly indicated by the adjective Disagreeable.
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