So I told my driver to stop at the hotel. A telegram was waiting there for me.
“Hold car in Paris,” it said. “Camp may be moved any day.”
This blow fell at fourteen o’clock this afternoon. By half-past fifteen I had called up every steamship office and learned that the next boat for America would leave from England next Wednesday night. I am going to be aboard.
And now I have for sale, at auction:
One pass through the French war zone.
One pass good in the American camp.
One driver’s license.
One book of essence tickets.
One road map.
One registration card.