“Certainly,” he said in answer to my request, “if the car is for an American officer. And what is the license number?” I had to confess I didn’t know. “Well,” said he, “you go to the garage and find out. Then come back and I’ll give you the order.” I went to the garage to find out. There was no license. “Où can je get one?” I asked my friend. He gave me the address of the license bureau, on Rue Oskaloosa or something. The driver knew where it was. Monsieur du License surprised me by asking for a picture and taking my description, which I could almost have rhymed by this time-- _Hair jet black, but a paucity of it; Forehead high as the Eiffel tower; Prominent nose, but it’s mine; I love it; Eyes the brown of the pansy flower; Medium mouth, not the best for kisses; Chin as round as a billiard ball; Dark complected--Oh, Mister, this is Me, and I’m better than six feet tall._ “What est the numéro of the engine?” “Four hundred and fifty-six thousand three hundred and four,” I replied sans batting an eyelash. He took it down and disappeared into an adjoining room. In a little while he returned with a license plate--second-hand to match the car. I carried it along to display to the man at G. H. Q., as it is technically known. “Où can I get the tires?” I asked. “Anywhere, with that order,” he said. So I told the driver to go anywhere, and he misunderstood and took me everywhere. The tire maison he chose was as far away as he could drive without crossing the Swiss border. “Now back to the United States garage,” said I, and we arrived just as they were closing. My friend told me the car had been “taken down.” When I saw it I was convinced that the “taking down” had been accomplished with shrapnel. “How many months will it take to put it together again?” I asked. “Très few minutes,” said the mechanic. “It will be all finished to-morrow midi.” “It looks all finished now.” “Avez-vous votre license?” he inquired. I displayed it triumphantly. “Ah, oui,” he said. “But that’s just the license for the car. Vous must aussi have a driver’s license.” “Bonne nuit!” I yelped. “And what for?” “C’est la loi,” said he. “Everybody who drives in France must have one.” “How do you get it?” “You’ll have to go to the Chef de Traffic Police and pass the examination.” “How long does it take?” “Très brief. Not more than une heure.” “Well, will you guarantee to have the car all ready when I come for it at noon to-morrow?” “Je promise,” he said, and I drove back to the hotel. Oh, Major, wait till you see that taxi bill! _Friday, September 14. Paris._