"Besides, supposing Rad has
cheeked them and they lock him up, we won't be able to get back till
tomorrow. None of us can run the car well enough to get out of London
without getting into a smash up." So saying, I put on my coat and
sallied forth.
Before I got to the front door I could tell there was something doing,
for the restaurant windows were filled with diners standing on chairs.
Through a vacant space I could see a great crowd and two policemen's
helmets standing up above the middle of the throng. They considerately
opened a passage up for me to the two policemen who were standing
beside the car with Rad at the wheel looking quite unconcerned.
"What is the matter?" I demanded.
"Your car has no number on it," said a policeman.
It was so similar to our experience the week before at Bournemouth
that I smiled inwardly, and went through the same formula.
"Why should a government car have a number?" I asked.
"To identify it, sir, those are our orders, sir."
"Can't you identify that car?" I asked. "It says, written in big
letters on the front, "Canadian Government, Divisional Headquarters,"
in case you can't read! The car belongs to the Canadian Government. We
are waiting to go to France; we came into London less than an hour ago
on business to the War Office. Is there anything more you want?"
"We would like the chauffeur's name," said the cub policeman, who had
caused the trouble.
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