I used to think that Boston streets were mixey, because they changed names once in a while, and Summer Street becomes Winter after it crosses Washington, for some reason best known to itself. In Paris, a street is one thing on one side of a lamp-post, and then suddenly adopts the name of the nearest square on the other side of the post. The odd and even numbers of a street run entirely differently on the two sides of the street, so that when looking for forty and you see thirty-seven, you think that forty is apt to be fairly near on the opposite side of the street, but no, no, it is a couple of blocks ahead or past, for the numbers do not run evenly, and twelve faces thirty-seven! Of course, all the numbers are put up good and high, so that they won't be stolen, I suppose, and also so that when you want to see them, and are walking, you can turn your face skywards and, walking ahead, fall off the sidewalk and amuse the children! Also in the car, with this body, one has to lean out the side and crane, and I can tell you my swanlike neck comes in handy, to say nothing of my eyes, for the ingenuity shown by whoever hides the numbers on the houses--just behind a blind or beneath a scroll, or to right or left or beside the doorway--is wonderful! As I started to say, before I got off on this feeling dissertation on the Parisian street names and numbers, I was late to Mrs. Jackson, and found her waiting and eager to be off, for there was lots to be done. As I knew that there was not any too much gas in the tank, I emptied one of my extra bidons in (I always carry two extra ones; each holds five litres of gas, makes about five gallons in all). I said as I did so that it smelled like bum gas, and then thought no more about it. We started cheerfully, and got about three blocks, on a nice muddy asphalt street, and she died, quietly, but very dead, indeed. I got out and cranked for a time, but soon knew that there was trouble deeper than mere cranking would remove. So off came my hat and coat, and I rolled my sleeves up and went to it. I found the spark seemed all right, and by a process of elimination found out that just what I dreaded from the first was wrong--the carburetor. By this time the sidewalk crowd had grown considerably, for the sight of an American girl, hatless, sleeves rolled up, hair flying, bobbing under the car and into the hood, was not missed by many residents of that district, I can tell you. A very nice gentleman pushed his way through the gaping crowd, which was getting as near and as much in the way as possible, except when I turned every few minutes and froze the half-dozen most forward with a glance calculated to freeze, and which I wished could kill, for anything that gets me peeved is an audience, particularly a French one. The nice American said that he "knew nothing about a car," but "could he help?" He could. I dispatched him for help from the nearest garage so quick that he couldn't change his mind.