Having attached
the minute bucket to one end (the stronger looking end, the end which had
more belts and less neckties and handkerchiefs) of our improvised rope,
B., Harree, myself and The Zulu bided our time at the window--then
seizing a favourable opportunity, in enormous haste began paying out the
infernal contrivance. Down went the sinful tin-pail, safely past the
window-ledge just below us, straight and true to the waiting hands of the
faithful Margherite--who had just received it and was on the point of
undoing the bucket from the first belt when, lo! who should come in sight
around the corner but the pimply-faced brilliantly-uniformed
glitteringly-putteed _sergeant de plantons lui-meme_. Such amazement as
dominated his puny features I have rarely seen equalled. He stopped dead
in his tracks; for one second stupidly contemplated the window,
ourselves, the wall, seven neckties, five belts, three handkerchiefs, a
scarf, two shoe-strings, the jam pail, and Margherite--then, wheeling,
noticed the _planton_ (who peacefully and with dignity was pursuing a
course which carried him further and further from the zone of operations)
and finally, spinning around again, cried shrilly
"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez foutu avec cette machine-la?_"
At which cry the _planton_ staggered, rotated, brought his gun clumsily
off his shoulder, and stared, trembling all over with emotion, at his
superior.
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