Only the Rochet-Schneider,
which had been to Verdun, stood unready for the inspection, coated from
wheel to hood with white Meuse mud. There was nothing to be done with
her until she had been under the hose.
Out in the street, where the hose was fastened to the hydrant, the
little pests of Metz clustered eagerly, standing on the hose pipe where
the bursts were tied with string, and by dexterous pressure diverting
the leaks into gay fountains that flew up and pierced the windows
opposite. As the mud rolled off under the blast of the hose and left the
car streaky and dripping, the little boys dipping their feet into the
gutters and paddled.
Soaked and bareheaded, Fanny drove the clean car slowly back into the
garage and set her in her place in the long line.
Stewart, beside her, whispered, "They've come, they've come! They're
starting at the other end. Four officers."
Fanny pulled her tin of English "Brasso" from a pocket-flap, and began
to rub a lamp. At the far, far end of the long shed four men were
standing with their backs to her, round a car. The globed lamp was
tricky, and the chamois-leather would slip and let her bark her knuckle
on the bracket. But the glow, born in the brass, grew clearer and
clearer, till suddenly, stooping to it, she looked into a mirror and saw
all the garage behind her and the long rows of cars bent in a yellow
curve, and little men and oily women walking incredibly upon the rounded
ball of the world.
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