prison (I was glad to know where I was bound, and thanked this
communicative gentleman); or criminals weren't allowed canes; or where
exactly did I think I was, in the Tuileries? asks a rube movie-cop
personage.

"Very well, gentlemen," I said. "You will allow me to tell you
something." (I was beet-colored.) "In America that sort of thing isn't
done."

This haughty inaccuracy produced an astonishing effect, namely, the
prestidigitatorial vanishment of the v-f-g. The v-f-g's numerous
_confreres_ looked scared and twirled their whiskers.

I sat on the curb and began to fill a paper with something which I found
in my pockets, certainly not tobacco.

Splutter-splutter-fizz-Poop--the v-f-g is back, with my oak-branch in his
raised hand, slithering opprobria and mostly crying: "Is that huge piece
of wood what you call a cane? It is, is it? What? How? What the--," so
on.

I beamed upon him and thanked him, and explained that a "dirty Frenchman"
had given it to me as a souvenir, and that I would now proceed.

Twisting the handle in the loop of my sack, and hoisting the vast parcel
under my arm, I essayed twice to boost it on my back. This to the
accompaniment of HurryHurryHurryHurryHurryHurryHurry.... The third time I
sweated and staggered to my feet, completely accoutred.

Down the road. Into the _ville_. Curious looks from a few pedestrians. A