“If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Kiley, “I’ll leave early in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you left right now,” said he.
There followed a long discussion and a cross-examination even crosser than mine in Bordeaux. Mr. Kiley revealed his whole family history and won the right to stay overnight, provided he remained indoors and departed from town first thing in the morning.
But France is like America in that Saturday is usually succeeded by Sunday, and when Mr. Kiley arose from his hotel bed and resumed his search for gas he found every garage in town shut up tight. As I remember the United States, garages do not keep holy the Sabbath Day nor any other day. Over here, however, everything closes on Sunday except churches, theaters and saloons.
Mr. Kiley took in the situation and returned to his room to hide. Shortly before midi there was a knock at his door and a new officer appeared.
“You seem to like our town, Mr. Kiley,” said he.
“I’ll leave it as soon as I can get away,” said Mr. Kiley.
“No doubt,” replied the officer. “But I believe you will be here a long while.”
Mr. Kiley tried to look calm.
“Bone,” he said in perfectly good French.