She struck me
immediately as being not only intelligent but alive. She questioned us in
excellent English as to our offenses, and seemed much pleased to discover
that we were--to all appearances--innocent of wrong-doing.
From time to time our subdued conversation was interrupted by admonitions
from the amiable Wooden Hand. Twice the door SLAMMED open, and Monsieur
le Directeur bounced out, frothing at the mouth and threatening everyone
with infinite _cabinot_, on the ground that everyone's deportment or lack
of it was menacing the aplomb of the commissioners. Each time, the Black
Holster appeared in the background and carried on his master's bullying
until everyone was completely terrified--after which we were left to
ourselves and the Wooden Hand once again.
B. and I were allowed by the latter individual--he was that day, at
least, an individual not merely a _planton_--to peek over his shoulder at
the men's list. The Wooden Hand even went so far as to escort our
editious minds to the nearness of their examination by the simple yet
efficient method of placing one of his human fingers opposite the name of
him who was (even at that moment) within, submitting to the inexorable
justice of _le gouvernement francais_.
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