Into a Paris garage rolled a roadster, hot from the Dieppe road. The hour was a wee, small one. The garage was full downstairs. The mechanic on duty so informed the driver of the roadster, requested that he steer to the elevator for a ride to the second floor. Out leaped the 'driver. "I," said he, "am Georges Carpentier," bashed the mechanic's nose with his gorgeous right fist. With an untranslatable exclamation, the mechanic dove at his customer's knees, tackled, rolled the Orchid Man of France upon the greasy garage floor, pummelled, beat, ejected...
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