“Monsieur can easily obtain a ticket,” said the guy when things had quieted down. “Monsieur’s military passes will be suffisant.” “Where at?” “At the Maison du Contrôle de l’Essence.” “And that is--?” “Vingt sept, Rue Yaki Hula Hickey Dula.” “Is that as far away as it sounds?” “Monsieur can go there and be back in une heure.” Monsieur crawled wearily into a taxi and started for Honolulu. The military passes did prove suffisant, and there was no trouble getting a fifty-gallon book at two francs per gal. “I’ll save time now,” I thought. “I’ll pick up my baggage on the way back to the garage.” So I told my driver to stop at the hotel. A telegram was waiting there for me. “Hold car in Paris,” it said. “Camp may be moved any day.” This blow fell at fourteen o’clock this afternoon. By half-past fifteen I had called up every steamship office and learned that the next boat for America would leave from England next Wednesday night. I am going to be aboard. And now I have for sale, at auction: One pass through the French war zone. One pass good in the American camp. One driver’s license. One book of essence tickets. One road map. One registration card. I think I will leave the four tires and the offset clef à vis and the wheel puller with the car. Also the car’s license. The major is perfectly trustworthy. I only hope he doesn’t get killed before my expense account reaches him. VII I START HOME, WITH A STOP-OVER AT LONDON _Saturday, September 15. Paris._ The gentleman at the American Embassy, which I visited late yesterday afternoon, spake truth when he said it was some job to get away from this place. “If you want to leave on Sunday,” quoth he, “you’ll have to rise early Saturday and keep going all day. See our consul first thing in the morning, and he’ll tell you all you have to do.” So I saw our consul first thing this morning. In fact, I beat him to his office. When he came in he was cordial and unsuspicious, rare qualities in a consul. He stamped my passport “Bon pour se rendre en Amérique par Grande Bretagne” and a great deal more. “Now,” he said, “you’ll have to be viséed by the préfet de police and approved by the British Military Control. I don’t know in what order. They change it every two or three days to keep you guessing.” I chose the British Control first and, of course, was wrong. But it took an hour to find this out. There was a big crowd of us, and we were all given numbers, as in a barber shop of a Saturday night. But the resemblance to the barber shop ceased with the giving, for they called us regardless of number. A guinea sitting next to me was 42 and I was 18. He preceded me into the sanctum. And I got there ahead of No. 12, a British matron. My session was brief. “The police visé must come first,” said the officer in charge.