"The fact that it was necessary to crash your blinking bus in a stray field in order to avoid their footling passport regulations is absolutely immaterial. The only damage is a dent in Ted's dicky, but all the best waiters have that. They smear it with soup to show their energy….My God! Here's another of them."
A Frenchman was advancing towards them down the stately vestibule of the Ritz waving protesting hands. He addressed himself in a voluble crescendo to Drummond, who rose and bowed deeply. His knowledge of French was microscopic, but such trifles were made to be overcome.
"Mais oui, Monsieur mon Colonel," he remarked affably, when the gendarme paused for lack of breath, "vous comprenez que notre machine avait crashé dans un field des turnipes. Nous avons lost notre direction. Nous sommes hittés dans l'estomacs….Comme ci, comme ca….Vous comprenez, n'est-ce-pas, mon Colonel?" He turned fiercely on Jerry, "Shut up, you damn fool; don't laugh!"
"Mais, messieurs, vous n'avez pas des passeports." The little man, torn between gratification at his rapid promotion and horror at such an appalling breach of regulations, shot up and down like an agitated semaphore. "Vous comprenez; c'est defendu d'arriver en Paris sans des passeports?"
"Parfaitement, mon Colonel," continued Hugh, unmoved. "Mais vous comprenez que nous avons crashe dans un field des turnipes—non; des rognons….What the hell are you laughing at, Jerry?"
