The traffic chief said that before he could examine me for a license I must show him my registration card from a regular police commissioner. I had been told I ought to have one of those darn things, but had passed it up. Now I was face to face with the necessity of acquiring the card and doing it quick. The nearest station was only a few blocks away. I found it jam-packed with people who looked as if they all worked in East St. Louis. I flagged an attendant. “I want to register,” I told him. “You’ll be called when it’s your turn,” he said, and gave me a number. It was 89,041. “How long will I have to wait?” He pondered. “I think they’re now in the twenty-thousands,” he said. Suddenly I bethought me of a document in my pocket, a letter from the boss of the Maison de la Presse. I flashed it on him. “Ah-h-h!” he sighed, and led me through the mob to the inner shrine. In ten minutes I had my card. The commissioner didn’t even want a picture, or nothin’. I plunged through the gang again and was stared at enviously. Some of the poor blokes have undoubtedly been waiting there since the Kaiser was forced into the war. Again I appeared before the traffic chief. “Of course,” he said, “I will have to examine your papers. And avez-vous une photophie?” I came through. “Now,” I said, “we’re fifty-fifty. You have one and I have one.” But he wasn’t listening. He was rummaging for the deadly dossier. “This,” he said, when he had found one, “will have to be filled out.” “Yes,” I replied, “I think I recall filling one out last time I was in France.” “This car belongs to an American army officer?” “Ah, oui.” “What does he intend to do with the car?” The temptation was strong to say he intended using it to tour the trenches. But it was no time to trifle. “He expects to ride round the camp in it, sir. He is in one of the high commands and has to do a lot of inspecting.” “Do you know the traffic laws of Paris?” “Ah, oui.” He didn’t ask me what they were. But I could have told him. Any part of the street you like, with a minimum speed limit of forty miles on the straightaway and sixty-five miles round the corners. “You are going to take the car right out of Paris?” “Ah, oui.” “That’s all,” he said, and handed me a driver’s license, horizon blue with saffron stripes. I thanked him and bowed myself out of the place. “From now on,” I thought, “it’s clear sailing.” The car was ready. I had in my mind’s eye a near-by unfrequented street, where I was going to master the driving of it in ten minutes. Then I was going to shoot her up to the hotel, get my baggage and leave town. “How about gas and oil?” I inquired. “Oil, oui, but essence, no,” said the mechanic. “Well, throw in ten gallons,” said I. “Ah, but has monsieur an essence ticket?” Monsieur never heard of it. “Ah, then, monsieur can get no essence.” “Well for--” and monsieur used harsh words.