Less than an hour and a half brought us to the prosperous city of
Bournemouth, filled with the omnipresent "Tommy." The sea looked
mighty good to us, for we hadn't seen it since our landing in
October, though we had seen plenty of water--rain water--since. We
raced our car along the beach, got out and snapshotted one another,
admired the views, and cut up generally like a gang of boys let loose
from school. Then somebody said "tea," and we drove to a little rather
suspicious looking "Pub" on the beach.
There we got tea and toast but we didn't stay long, for out of the
window we could see the chauffeur under-cross-fire of a policeman, and
in England that always means trouble.
An itinerant dog fancier had two diminutive "Norwegian truffle
'unters" which he was anxious to part with, but we couldn't wait to
talk to him. Nor had we time to ask him whether truffle growing was an
industry in Norway, or whether the substituting of dogs for pigs in
hunting truffles was a recent innovation.
The Cop had been watching for us from across the way, and we were
hardly out when he was already upon us. "Excuse me, sir, but you
'aven't a hidentification number on your car" said the Cop.
"We have not" I replied, "what is the sense of having a number?"
"To hidentify the car, sir," said the Cop.
"Can't you identify the car with that label on" I queried, pointing to
the bonnet upon which was a label reading: _Canadian Government_; the
car also had three O.
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