might be playing London or St. Petersburg or Berlin or Venice.
"First we go see a ball game," he said.
The flapper astounded him.
"I don't think they have it over here—baseball," she observed.
No baseball? She must be crazy. He rang the bell.
The capable Swiss entered. In less than ten minutes he was able to convince the amazed American that baseball was positively not played on the continent of Europe. It was monstrous. It put a different aspect upon Europe.
"Makes no difference where we go, then," announced Bean. "Just any little old last year's place. We'll lope."
"Ripping," applauded the flapper, with brightening eyes.
"Hurry and dress. I'll get a little old car and we'll beat it before they get back. No time for trunk; take bag."
Down in the office he found they made nothing of producing little old cars for the right people. The car was there even as he was taking the precaution to secure a final assurance from the manager that Paris did not by any chance play London that day.
The two bags were installed in the ready car; then a radiant flapper beside an amateur upstart. The driver desired instructions.
"Ally, ally!" directed Bean, waving a vague but potent hand.
