up for lost time. On the correct assumption that t-d does not understand English the driver passes the time of day through the minute window: 

 “For Christ’s sake, Cummings, what’s up?” 

 “You got me,” I said, laughing at the delicate naiveté of the question. 

 “Did y’ do something to get pinched?” 

 “Probably,” I answered importantly and vaguely, feeling a new dignity. 

 “Well, if you didn’t, maybe B—— did.” 

 “Maybe,” I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. 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 déjeuner. 

 “Does he mean me?” the driver asked innocently. 

 “Sure,” I told him. 

 Nothing is said of B. or me. 

 Now, cautiously, t-d first and I a slow next, we descend. The F.I.A.T. rumbles off, with the distinguished one’s 

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