Bhoong - barrang - whroo - oo - oom - prrrrawng - bomp - clink - whang - oomble - gawmmle-_BOOM_! The tank proceeded westward on Twenty-seventh Street at a breakneck pace of three miles an hour. Windows flew up. Pajama-clad figures, and others more frilly, appeared therein, making somnolent and wrathful gestures. Scandalized inhabitants rushed out of doorways and rushed in again, for the tank was steering wildly. The gob funneled his hands toward the flit. “Where you going?” he bellowed above the riot. The answer came back faint and fragmentary, “Don’t--how--’amthing--steers.” In a spirit of misplaced helpfulness, the gob seized a lever and pulled it. Straightway the tank paused, turned on its heel, executed a couple of airy pirouettes and with a metallic roar rushed up on the sidewalk and totally obliterated three garbage-cans which had been playing the extrahazardous rôle of innocent bystanders. It then cut obliquely across the corner, gently but firmly removed an electric-light pole which sought to stay its pace, debouched into Fifth Avenue, and pointing its nose up-town, resumed its sedate progress. “Don’t--excite--agin,” bawled the flit at the wheel reprovingly to the gob. “Flighty--little--whiffet. Letter--own--way.” Ensconced at a peep-hole the sike now delivered tidings in a strained yell, “Cavalry attack.” The flit threw off the power so suddenly that his two companions came and sat on his neck. Amidst the ensuing peace the night roar of Fifth Avenue was as the splash of ripples upon a gently sloping beach. “Get off me!” protested the engineer. “I’m going to chin with the law.” He opened the door and a policeman’s head appeared. At the same moment the sike retired and was dimly seen behind a stanchion busily writing what the gob surmised to be a long farewell to home and loved ones. The cop opened a mouth upon which lurked the suspicion of a grin. “Where are you boys trundling your little alarm-clock on wheels?” he inquired. “Back to quarters,” replied the flit glibly. The officer’s glance fell upon the spread wings of the flit’s service. “Looka-here,” he observed. “You belong to the flying, don’t you? You’re in the wrong kind of bus.” “I’m goin’ to fly this,” asserted the operator blandly, “as soon as we come to a good take-off.” “Sure!” agreed the cop. “I’d like to go up with you. Just the same, I’ll take a look at your papers. Hand ’em out.”