With a puzzled look, the gendarme unfolded the letter. When he saw the strange-looking English words he gasped with astonishment.
“What!” he exclaimed. “What is this you have here?”
“My passport,” I answered. “I am an American.”
“Ha! American! Zounds! And that is really a passport? Never before have I seen one.”
It was not really a passport, although it was as good as one; but as the gendarme could not read it, he was in no position to dispute my word.
“Very good,” he went on; “but you must have another paper to prove that you have worked.”
Here was a difficulty. If I told him that I was a traveler and no workman, he would probably put me in jail. For a moment I did not know what to do. Then I snatched from my bundle the paper showing that I had worked on a cattle-boat.
“Bah!” grumbled the officer. “More foreign gibberish. What is this villain language that the evil one himself could not read?”
“English.”
“Tiens, but that is a queer thing!” he said thoughtfully, holding the paper out at arm’s length, and scratching his head. However, with some help he finally made out one date on the paper, and, handing it back with a sigh, allowed us to pass on.