The Enormous Room | Page 5

caught the words:
"And Cummings" (the first and last time that my name was correctly
pronounced by a Frenchman), "where is he?"
"Present," I said, giving a salute to which neither of them paid the
slightest attention.
"Ah yes" impenetrably remarked the mysterious one in positively
sanitary English. "You shall put all your baggage in the car, at
once"--then, to tin-derby-the-first, who appeared in an occult manner at
his master's elbow--"Go with him, get his baggage, at once."
My things were mostly in the vicinity of the cuisine, where lodged the
cuisinier, mechanician, menusier, etc., who had made room for me
(some ten days since) on their own initiative, thus saving me the
humiliation of sleeping with nineteen Americans in a tent which was
always two-thirds full of mud. Thither I led the tin-derby, who
scrutinised everything with surprising interest. I threw mes affaires
hastily together (including some minor accessories which I was going
to leave behind, but which the t-d bade me include) and emerged with a
duffle-bag under one arm and a bed-roll under the other, to encounter
my excellent friends, the "dirty Frenchmen," aforesaid. They all popped
out together from one door, looking rather astonished. Something by
way of explanation as well as farewell was most certainly required, so I
made a speech in my best French:
"Gentlemen, friends, comrades--I am going away immediately and
shall be guillotined tomorrow."
--"Oh hardly guillotined I should say," remarked t-d, in a voice which
froze my marrow despite my high spirits; while the cook and carpenter
gaped audibly and the mechanician clutched a hopelessly smashed
carburetor for support.

One of the section's voitures, a F.I.A.T., was standing ready. General
Nemo sternly forbade me to approach the Renault (in which B.'s
baggage was already deposited) and waved me into the F.I.A.T., bed,
bed-roll and all; whereupon t-d leaped in and seated himself opposite
me in a position of perfect unrelaxation, which, despite my aforesaid
exultation at quitting the section in general and Mr. A. in particular,
impressed me as being almost menacing. Through the front window I
saw my friend drive away with t-d Number 2 and Nemo; then, having
waved hasty farewell to all les Américains that I knew--three in
number--and having exchanged affectionate greetings with Mr. A.
(who admitted he was very sorry indeed to lose us), I experienced the
jolt of the clutch--and we were off in pursuit.
Whatever may have been the forebodings inspired by t-d Number 1's
attitude, they were completely annihilated by the thrilling joy which I
experienced on losing sight of the accursed section and its asinine
inhabitants--by the indisputable and authentic thrill of going
somewhere and nowhere, under the miraculous auspices of someone
and no one--of being yanked from the putrescent banalities of an
official non-existence into a high and clear adventure, by a deus ex
machina in a grey-blue uniform, and a couple of tin derbies. I whistled
and sang and cried to my vis-à-vis: "By the way, who is yonder
distinguished gentleman who has been so good as to take my friend and
me on this little promenade?"--to which, between lurches of the
groaning F.I.A.T., t-d replied awesomely, clutching at the window for
the benefit of his equilibrium: "Monsieur le Ministre de Sureté de
Noyon."
Not in the least realizing what this might mean, I grinned. A responsive
grin, visiting informally the tired cheeks of my confrère, ended by
frankly connecting his worthy and enormous ears which were squeezed
into oblivion by the oversize casque. My eyes, jumping from those ears,
lit on that helmet and noticed for the first time an emblem, a sort of
flowering little explosion, or hair-switch rampant. It seemed to me very
jovial and a little absurd.
"We're on our way to Noyon, then?"

T-d shrugged his shoulders.
Here the driver's hat blew off. I heard him swear, and saw the hat
sailing in our wake. I jumped to my feet as the F.I.A.T. came to a
sudden stop, and started for the ground--then checked my flight in
mid-air and landed on the seat, completely astonished. T-d's revolver,
which had hopped from its holster at my first move, slid back into its
nest. The owner of the revolver was muttering something rather
disagreeable. The driver (being an American of Vingt-et-Un) was
backing up instead of retrieving his cap in person. My mind felt as if it
had been thrown suddenly from fourth into reverse. I pondered and said
nothing.
On again--faster, to make up for lost time. On the correct assumption
that t-d does not understand English the driver passes the time of day
through the minute window:
"For Christ's sake, Cummings, what's up?"
"You got me," I said, laughing at the delicate naiveté of the question.
"Did y' do something to get pinched?"
"Probably," I answered importantly