As a matter of
fact I was never so excited and proud. I was, to be sure, a criminal!
Well, well, thank God that settled one question for good and all--no more
_Section Sanitaire_ for me! No more Mr. A. and his daily lectures on
cleanliness, deportment, etc.! In spite of myself I started to sing. The
driver interrupted:
"I heard you asking the tin lid something in French. Whadhesay?"
"Said that gink in the Renault is the head cop of Noyon," I answered at
random.
"GOODNIGHT. Maybe we'd better ring off, or you'll get in wrong with"--he
indicated t-d with a wave of his head that communicated itself to the car
in a magnificent skid; and t-d's derby rang out as the skid pitched t-d
the length of the F.I.A.T.
"You rang the bell then," I commented--then to t-d: "Nice car for the
wounded to ride in," I politely observed. T-d answered nothing....
Noyon.
We drive straight up to something which looks unpleasantly like a feudal
dungeon. The driver is now told to be somewhere at a certain time, and
meanwhile to eat with the Head Cop, who may be found just around the
corner--(I am doing, the translating for t-d)--and, oh yes, it seems that
the Head Cop has particularly requested the pleasure of this
distinguished American's company at _dejeuner_.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31