To kill time I rode back to Billy’s rue.
“The car’s on the blink,” said my friend in French. “The connecting rod is lâche and some bearings are burned out. Besides, vous would be a rummy to partir on these tires.”
“Comme beaucoup new ones do je need?”
“Just plain quatre,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “put them on and get busy avec the reparations. I want to start away before dark.”
“Ah, oui,” says he, “but we have no tires and we have no tools to make the reparations avec.”
“Can’t you get them?”
“Vous devoir get them yourself.”
“Où?”
“At the branch factory of the ——,” and he said the name of the car right out loud.