“What est the numéro of the engine?”
“Four hundred and fifty-six thousand three hundred and four,” I replied sans batting an eyelash.
He took it down and disappeared into an adjoining room. In a little while he returned with a license plate—second-hand to match the car.
I carried it along to display to the man at G. H. Q., as it is technically known.
“Où can I get the tires?” I asked.
“Anywhere, with that order,” he said.
So I told the driver to go anywhere, and he misunderstood and took me everywhere. The tire maison he chose was as far away as he could drive without crossing the Swiss border.
“Now back to the United States garage,” said I, and we arrived just as they were closing.
My friend told me the car had been “taken down.” When I saw it I was convinced that the “taking down” had been accomplished with shrapnel.
“How many months will it take to put it together again?” I asked.