After dark I slipped out, glad indeed to leave the wooden bench. The unventilated little hole was not good enough for a dog! I found a snug, quiet little corner in the courtyard and lay down, wrapped in my overcoat--for about five minutes. Then shadowy figures in the uniform of the Legion paid me a visit. Yes, a fine evening. Brilliant idea of mine, to sleep in the open air. Filthy place, those quarters for recruits! Yes, nom d'un pétard! The shadowy figures were old légionnaires, on special duty to keep the barracks in order. Did I like the Algerian wine? They wanted to know. I did not know anything about it? Impossible! Did I know that the price of a "litre," of a full quart, was but four sous even up here on the hills? Remarkably fine wine! "It's a pity [described with a variety of choice epithets] that we haven't the [here followed a similar ornate flow of oaths] four sous. And the canteen isn't closed yet!" Small wonder that then I made my first purchase in Africa. Several bottles of wine. ... Somebody knocked at a door hard by, attracted by the jingling of bottles presumably. The knocking was quite modest at first. Then it became imperious. "Who is it?" I asked. "Oh, that's Reddy. He's thirsty, I suppose," said one of the légionnaires. "He's in the lock-up." My new friends seemed to regard "being in the lock-up" as the most natural thing that could happen to a légionnaire. We all went to the door of the cell. There was a small air-hole high up in the wall and presently a hand holding a tin cup appeared. "Fill up!" a gruff voice demanded. One of the légionnaires climbed on another's shoulders and emptied the contents of half a bottle into the tin cup. "That's all right!" said the poor prisoner. "What is he locked up for?" I wanted to know. This the story.