sailing in our wake. I jumped to my feet as the F.I.A.T. came to a sudden
stop, and started for the ground--then checked my flight in mid-air and
landed on the seat, completely astonished. T-d's revolver, which had
hopped from its holster at my first move, slid back into its nest. The
owner of the revolver was muttering something rather disagreeable. The
driver (being an American of Vingt-et-Un) was backing up instead of
retrieving his cap in person. My mind felt as if it had been thrown
suddenly from fourth into reverse. I pondered and said nothing.

On again--faster, to make 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 naivete 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: