, myself, and--as The
Zulu's friend--The Young Pole. Now this fiendish imitation of The Old
Oaken Bucket That Hung In The Well was to be lowered to the good-natured
Marguerite (who went to and fro from the door of the building to the
washing shed); who was to fill it for us at the pump situated directly
under us in a cavernous chilly cave on the ground-floor, then rehitch it
to the rope, and guide its upward beginning. The rest was in the hands of
Fate.
Bold might the _planton_ be; we were no _faineants_. We made a little
speech to everyone in general desiring them to lend us their belts. The
Zulu, the immensity of whose pleasure in this venture cannot be even
indicated, stripped off his belt with unearthly agility--Monsieur Auguste
gave his, which we tongue-holed to The Zulu's--somebody else contributed
a necktie--another a shoe-string--The Young Pole his scarf, of which he
was impossibly proud--etc. The extraordinary rope so constructed was now
tried out in The Enormous Room, and found to be about thirty-eight feet
long; or in other words of ample length, considering that the window
itself was only three stories above terra firma. Margherite was put on
her guard by signs, executed when the _planton's_ back was turned (which
it was exactly half the time, as his patrol stretched at right angles to
the wing of the building whose third story we occupied).
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