The Car That Went Abroad

ertain others full of pertinent comment on ocean travel in a day when all the seas were as a great pleasure pond. Th

aside in the same sad way that one disposes of the autumn drift and said I would start with Marsei

d the "Pearl of the Mediterranean," and to walk up and down the rue Cannebière and drink coffee and fancy-colored liquids at little t

a week or more to get our car through the customs and obtain the necessary licenses and memb

ers, Morocco, and the Farther East. And there were ladies in filmy things, with bright hats and parasols; and soldiers in uniforms of red and blue, while the wide pavements of that dazzling street were literally covered with little tables, almost to the edges. And all those gay people who were not walking up and down, chatting and laughing, were seated at the little tables with red and green and yellow drinks before them and pitchers of ice or tiny cups of coffee, and all the seated people were laughing and chattering, too, or reading papers and smoking, and nobody seemed to have a sorrow or a care

inty place-a patisserie boulangerie-and ordered coffee and chocolate ice cream, and after long explanations on both sides got iced coffee and hot chocolate, which was doing rather well, we thought, for the first time, and

andbill over the entrance of a cinematograph show. The poster was foreign, too, in its phrasing, but the title, "L'aventures d'Arizona Bill" certainly had a flavor of home. The Joy, who w

something dainty and modest and not heating to the blood. We thought it would be easy to find such a place, for there were perfect seas of sidewalk tables, thronged with people, who at first glance seemed to be dining. But we discovered that they were only drinking, as before, and perhaps nibbling at little cakes or rolls. When we m

ook a corner position and studied the rather elaborate and obscure bill of fare. It was written, and the few things we could decipher did not seem cheap. We had heard about food being reasonable in France, but single portions of fish or cutlets at ".45" and broiled chicken at "1.20" could hardly be called cheap in this retired and unpretentious corner. One might as well be

ll, no matter how humble the place-"pot au feu, bouillabaisse" (the fish soup which is the pride of Marseilles-our first introduction to it), lamb chops, a crisp salad, Gruyère cheese, with a pint of red wine; and we paid-I try to blush w

r proof that these were in fact steady patrons. In the inner restaurant were rows of hooks along the walls, and at the corners some racks with other hooks. Upon these were hanging, not hats or garments, but dozens of knotted white cloths which we discovered presently to be table napkins, large white serviettes like our own. While we were trying to make out why they should be variously knotted and hung about in that way a man and woman went