It is recorded in the unwritten history of Fifth Avenue’s most costly and exclusive section, that there came, upon a midnight clear, a din as of ten thousand structural riveters in progressive action, giving place to sounds of revelry by early morning, which in turn was succeeded by the Anvil Chorus, above the surface of which soared a valiant barytone proclaiming, “The Voice that Breathed O’er Eden.” Mr. Chaw Veeder’s supper-party, back in the tank, was adjourning to night-court to seek a marrying magistrate. For, as in the old song, love (in the person of Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts) had found out the way, and the telephone, reaching a friendly judge, had arranged a special emergency license. Many queer equipages with strange cargoes visit night-court on sundry errands; but the tank with its wedding-party broke the record. Court adjourned informally, to rush out and ascertain who was bombing the locality and why. When the party entered, they beheld two policemen struggling to extricate the magistrate from the frantic embrace of Mr. Bingle Foxley, who was yelling: “Save me! It’s coming after me. I hear it. Don’t let it get me, Judge!” When at length his Honor was released, the sike greeted him with surprise. “It’s you, is it?” “It’s me,” agreed the magistrate. “Or if not me, I.” He was the bearded victim of “Cherchez la Chicken.” “We found him,” remarked the sike, indicating Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts. “So I perceive. It’s a small world.” “Small like a Harlem flat,” confirmed Miss Nora McSears discontentedly. “You can’t turn around in it without rousing the family. _That_,” she pursued, pointing out to Corporal Slayter one of the policemen engaged in preventing Mr. Foxley from crawling into the commitment file, “is Pa.” “Howdy, Pa!” said the flit. “Whaddye mean, ‘Pa’?” demanded the thunderstruck officer. “In-law,” explained Mr. Slayter. “To-be,” he added. “Perhaps,” amended Miss McSears. “Sure thing,” asseverated the flit blithely. “It’s in the air. You can’t dodge it.” “Other things difficult to dodge are in the air,” observed the magistrate. “Reuben, as friend to friend and unofficially, how did you get these?” “By the hour,” replied Mr. Watts. “I hired ’em.” “Are you responsible for their actions?” “Upon and after the hour of 11:05 P.M., I am.” “You escape,” pronounced the magistrate. “At 11:02 P.M. I am informed, an armored tank filled with desperadoes, I. W. W. Bolshevists, anarchists, nihilists, prohibitionists and other enemies of the public welfare, invaded West Forty-fourth Street and did there and then interrupt an orderly meeting of the Society for the Abolition of Tobacco, Bridge, Dancing and other Hellish Habits, by felonious means, to wit: firing upon it with machine guns, gatlings, howitzers, hand-grenades, rifles, revolvers and sundry lethal weapons, against the ordinances duly made and provided for the maintenance of the peace.” “So help me God,” intoned a large, solemn, pulpy person, rising in his seat.