"You must drive us to our hotel." she said, firmly. "We have waited two
hours."

"Impossible, madame!" said the man.

"But you _must_," we all said in chorus.

"You shall have much money," said Jimmie in his worst French.

"All the same it is impossible, monsieur," said the man.

He regretted exceedingly his inability to oblige the ladies, but--and he
prepared to drive off.

"Get in, girls," said Mrs. Jimmie, firmly, pushing us in at the back of
the wagon. The man expostulated, not in anger but appealingly. Mrs.
Jimmie would not listen. She said there ought to be more cabs in Paris,
and that she regretted it as much as he did, but she climbed in as she
talked, and gave the address of the hotel.

"You shall have three times your fare," she said, calmly, "drive on!"

"But what madame demands is impossible," pleaded the poor man. "I am on
my way for another body. Madame sits in the morgue wagon!"

But there he was mistaken, for madame sat nowhere. Before he had done
speaking madame was flying through the air, alighting on poor Jimmie's
foot, while Bee and I clawed at our dripping skirts in a mad effort to
follow suit.