Achmed Abdullah

“ It was the tall, angular, blond Norman—before the war had swept him into the service of government he had been a professor of psychology at the University of Nancy—who interpreted the situation correctly.
"Class consciousness," was his academic dictum to his friend, Maître Toussaint Leblanc of the Paris bar, pointing at Bibi who, the immaculate waiter once more, was tossing together vinegar and chili sauce and chopped chives in the right proportions for the Russian salad dressing. "An apache—and proud of the fact—contemptuously, haughtily proud!"
"And why not, bourgeois?" ”

“ Anatol' Chapin and Eloi l'Michet and that little chap—what was his name?—who used to go round with Thérèse la Rouge until one night, in a fit of jealousy, Thérèse tried to burn out his eyes with a bottle of vitriol, and Pierre l'Rongeur, and—
He shrugged his shoulders. Bon sang!—he thought—what fools! To fight, to die. He would like to see himself in their place, up on the front, at night, when all the cats were gray. ”

“ Here's one apache who—"
"Aisy, me lad! Aisy turns the thrick!" cut in Fitzgerald's smooth, silken voice, and Bibi was so utterly surprised at the fact that the plain-clothes man's blackjack was not thudding down on his head that he lost his garrotte hold and the German ran away and down Thirty-Fifth Street, leaving no trace behind him except a handful of blond hair that was clinging to Bibi's grip. ”