We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea.
At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car.
“Good-bye, you chaps,” Mike said. “It was a damned fine fiesta.”
“So long, Mike,” Bill said.
“I’ll see you around,” I said.
“Don’t worry about money,” Mike said. “You can pay for the car, Jake, and I’ll send you my share.”
“So long, Mike.”
“So long, you chaps. You’ve been damned nice.”
We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill’s bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks.
“So long, fella,” Bill said.