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I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, were consuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their bidons on high and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. […] The older [man] appeared pleased with my appetite; his face softened still more, as he remarked: "Bread without wine doesn't taste good," and proffered his bidon. I drank as much as I dared, and thanked him: "Ça va mieux."
[…]Bram De Groot, a domestique with the Dutch Rabobank team, drops out the back, one arm in the air. The team car responds instantly, swinging out of the line of support vehicles behind the peloton and racing, klaxon sounding, up to De Groot. The window opens and a hand emerges with a bidon (plastic drinks bottle). De Groot places it in his back pocket and the hand emerges with another. This one goes down the back of his shirt, and it is joined by five more. Then off he sprints to deliver them to thirsty team-mates. De Groot is one of the domestiques and this is their lot. They continually drop off, collecting bidons and sprinting back into the peloton with grotesquely bulging shirts.
["]Take a draught of my burgundy; bright as rubies. I never sell bad wines;—not I!—I know better than to drink them myself." He started and rose; and before he took the bidon [footnote †: “Little wooden drinking-cup.”], bowed to her, raising his cap with a grave courteous obeisance; a bow that had used to be noted in throne-rooms for its perfection of grace.
He took the bowl [containing red wine with bread broken in it] from her hands, and emptying a little of it into the wooden bidon that hung to her belt, kept that for himself, and stretching his arm across the straw, gave the bowl to Zackrist, who had watched it with the longing ravenous eyes of a starving wolf, and seized it with rabid avidity.
I saw that she had picked up an empty oil bidon that had been lying in the corner. I had bought it weeks before, for an oil lamp I had before I sold my things. […] They always make you pay a deposit on the bidon, and you get it back when the bidon is returned. But I'd forgotten all about it. […] She grabbed the bidon and went clattering down the stairs like a herd of elephants, and in three minutes she was back with two pounds of bread under one arm and a half-litre bottle of wine under the other.