“Well for—” and monsieur used harsh words.
“Monsieur can easily obtain a ticket,” said the guy when things had quieted down. “Monsieur’s military passes will be suffisant.”
“Where at?”
“At the Maison du Contrôle de l’Essence.”
“And that is—?”
“Vingt sept, Rue Yaki Hula Hickey Dula.”
“Is that as far away as it sounds?”
“Monsieur can go there and be back in une heure.”
Monsieur crawled wearily into a taxi and started for Honolulu. The military passes did prove suffisant, and there was no trouble getting a fifty-gallon book at two francs per gal.
“I’ll save time now,” I thought. “I’ll pick up my baggage on the way back to the garage.”