turned out, he was one of the Delectable Mountains; to discover which I had come a long and difficult way. Wherefore I shall tell you no more about him for the present, except that his name was Joseph Demestre.
We called him The Wanderer.
I was still wondering at my good luck in occupying the same miserable yard with this exquisite personage when a hoarse, rather thick voice shouted from the gate: "L'américain!"
It was a planton, in fact the chief planton for whom all ordinary plantons had unutterable respect and whom all mere men unutterably 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'américain." 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. "Entrez," he commanded. I did. An unremarkable looking gentleman in a French uniform, sitting at a sort of table. "Monsieur le médecin, le nouveau." The doctor got up. "Open your shirt." I did. "Take down your pants." I did. "All right." Then, as the planton was about to escort
