Out of the corner of
my eye I beheld the _planton_--now on both knees, musket held to his
shoulder by his left arm and pointing unflinchingly at us one and
all--hunting with his right arm and hand in his belt for cartridges! A
few seconds after this fleeting glimpse of heroic devotion had penetrated
my considerably heightened sensitivity--UP suddenly came the bucket and
over backwards we all went together on the floor of The Enormous Room.
And as we fell I heard a cry like the cry of a boiler announcing noon--
"Too late!"
I recollect that I lay on the floor for some minutes, half on top of The
Zulu and three-quarters smothered by Monsieur Auguste, shaking with
laughter....
Then we all took to our hands and knees, and made for our bunks.
I believe no one (curiously enough) got punished for this atrocious
misdemeanour--except the _planton_; who was punished for not shooting us,
although God knows he had done his very best.
And now I must chronicle the famous duel which took place between The
Zulu's compatriot, The Young Pole, and that herebefore introduced pimp,
The Fighting Sheeney; a duel which came as a climax to a vast deal of
teasing on the part of The Young Pole--who, as previously remarked, had
not learned his lesson from Bill The Hollander with the thoroughness
which one might have expected of him.
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