B. and I were conversing merrily apropos the God-sent miracle of our
escape from Vingt-et-Un, when a benign-faced personage of about fifty
with sparse greyish hair and a Benjamin Franklin expression appeared on
the other side of the fence, from the direction of the door through which
I had passed after bumping the beefy bull. "_Planton_" it cried heavily
to the wooden-handed one, "Two men to go get water." Harree and Pompom
were already at the gate with the archaic water-wagon, the former pushing
from behind and the latter in the shafts. The guardian of the _cour_
walked up and opened the gate for them, after ascertaining that another
_planton_ was waiting at the corner of the building to escort them on
their mission. A little way from the _cour_, the stone wall (which formed
one of its boundaries and which ran parallel to the other stone wall
dividing the two _cours_) met the prison building; and here was a huge
double door, twice padlocked, through which the waterseekers passed on to
the street. There was a sort of hydrant up the street a few hundred
yards, I was told. The cook (Benjamin F., that is) required from three to
six wagonfuls of water twice a day, and in reward for the labour involved
in its capture was in the habit of giving a cup of coffee to the captors.
I resolved that I would seek water at the earliest opportunity.

Harree and Pompom had completed their third and final trip and returned
from the kitchen, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths with the
backs of their hands. I was gazing airily into the muddy sky, when a roar
issued from the door-way:

"_Monter les hommes!_" or "Send the men up!"

It was the beefy-necked. We filed from the _cour_, through the door, past
a little window which I was told belonged to the kitchen, down the clammy
corridor, up the three flights of stairs, to the door of The Enormous