We stopped and all climbed out.
"It's all up!" he exclaimed. "Not one—but two tires are burst, and the shoe of the emergency wheel is flapping like an old dirty rag!"
"Now, in my time—" began the alderman.
"Never mind about your time, old man. If you want to get back to Oulchy and that mowing machine before Christmas, you've got to pitch in and help," cut in Huberson, whose nerves could no longer stand the strain. Our friend took the hint and began stripping off his coat. We were eight miles from Soissons, on the upgrade of a cobbled road, full in the sun. It was three P. M. on a stifling August day!
The men must have spent an hour trying to make impossible repairs—they knew it was no use walking back to Soissons where aid had already been refused, and it was evident from the condition of the tubes that there was no hope of mending them.
What to do?
"I'll tell you," said I (and I must admit that I spoke for the sake of saying something), "I'll tell you! Suppose you take out the inner tubes and stuff the shoes with grass!"
The men looked at me as if I had suddenly gone out of my mind. Their contempt was so apparent that it wilted me.
"Yes—I'm serious."
And then arose a series of protestations which common sense bade me heed, but which didn't advance our cause in the slightest. When we had lost a full half-hour more arguing the question, I once again proclaimed my original idea.