“D’you reckon this reptile’s got a keeper?” asked the flit. He entered the passageway and looked about, but found no one. “Or a mouth?” he proceeded. “We’ve got to persuade it to swallow us. Hey, gob; you’re tender and juicy. Tackle its whiskers.” “Those aren’t whiskers. Those are machine guns. Hi! Eureka! Here’s the door with ‘welcome’ on the mat.” At his touch a panel at the front slowly unfolded outward, displaying a lighted interior. “Who’ll join me in the Jonah Club?” invited the flit, plunging down the wide gullet. “It’s my idea we’d better get moving before our little whale gets to whinnying and raises its master. All aboard that’s going aboard. Public Library, Eagle Hotel, Soldier’s Monument and way stations to the Guard-House!” The others clambered into the monster’s interior. Its mouth closed after them. “Now, I hope the dum thing responds to gentle treatment,” the flit said. “I see how she starts, but I gotta take a chance on how she steers. Are you ready? Grab and stick; she may buck. Go!” He did something intricate and skilled to some levers. With a noise as of a boiler-shop attacked by convulsions, the tank moved majestically forth and, after a moment of doubt, which nearly cost a taxi its life, turned to the left and the bright lights. The voyage had begun. Here, for the benefit of those who have been living, since the war began, a retired life in Tierra del Fuego or Spitzbergen, it may be well to explain the terms of the fellowship. A sike is a private of the Psychological Division of the Army Medical Corps. Morale is his special concern; he is the man who keeps things stirring in camp when it has rained for three solid weeks and the mail has gone wrong and war is all that Sherman said of it and more. He is usually a college professor who has seen a great light. This one was, and had. His name is Follansbee James. A flit is a flying and prying person who snoops about in an airplane of low elevation and manners, poking his nose into matters which it is undesirable that he should know. Such is the shamelessness of our Government that our flit, Frederick Slayter by name, had actually been decorated for his ill-bred performances. A gob is, of course--though nobody knows why--an able seaman. Mr. “Chaw” Veeder was unusually able. He had other names, but they had vanished owing to his propensity for conserving a plug of tobacco unobtrusively in his cheek. There is a deal of hidden vice in our Navy. Having thus satisfied, I trust, inquiring minds of a scientific and philological bent, I will now return to the deliberate and uproarious conveyance wherein I have left the trio.