Faut pas t'en
faire_, who sang or said that?
PEE-p....
We're off.
I am almost asleep. Or myself. What's the matter here? Sardines writhing
about, cut it out, no room for that sort of thing. Jolt.
"Paris."
Morning. Morning in Paris. I found my bed full of fleas this morning, and
I couldn't catch the fleas, though I tried hard because I was ashamed
that anyone should find fleas in my bed which is at the Hotel des Saints
Peres whither I went in a fiacre and the driver didn't know where it was.
Wonderful. This is the American embassy. I must look funny in my
_pelisse_. Thank God for the breakfast I ate somewhere ... good-looking
girl, Parisienne, at the switch-board upstairs. "Go right in, sir." A-I
English by God. So this is the person to whom Edward E. Cummings is
immediately to report.
"Is this Mr. Cummings?"
"Yes." Rather a young man, very young in fact. Jove I must look queer.
"Sit down! We've been looking all over creation for you."
"Yes?"
"Have some cigarettes?"
"Yes."
By God he gives me a sac of Bull. Extravagant they are at the American
Embassy. Can I roll one? I can. I do.
Conversation. Pleased to see me. Thought I was lost for good. Tried every
means to locate me.
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