hated. It was the _planton_ into whom I had had the distinguished honour
of bumping shortly after my visit to _le bain_.

The Hollanders and Fritz were at the gate in a mob, all shouting "Which"
in four languages.

This _planton_ did not deign to notice them. He repeated roughly
"_L'americain._" Then, yielding a point to their frenzied entreaties: "Le
nouveau."

B. said to me "Probably he's going to take you to the Gestionnaire.
You're supposed to see him when you arrive. He's got your money and will
keep it for you, and give you an allowance twice a week. You can't draw
more than 20 francs. I'll hold your bread and spoon."

"Where the devil is the American?" cried the _planton_.

"Here I am."

"Follow me."

I followed his back and rump and holster through the little gate in the
barbed wire fence and into the building, at which point he commanded
"Proceed."

I asked "Where?"

"Straight ahead" he said angrily.

I proceeded. "Left!" he cried. I turned. A door confronted me.