The flit’s hand started to his head to scratch for ideas, when it was arrested midway by another hand pressing into it a sheet of paper. A whisper from the sike did the rest. The document was duly presented to the representative of the civil law who read therein, under the insignium of the War Camp Community Service, which looks very official and authoritative, if not too closely scrutinized, that Corporal F. Slayter of the Aero Service, Able Seaman Veeder, and Private James of the Sanitary Corps, U. S. A., were specially detailed to operate Tractor Tank No. 13 in such highways of New York City as they might select for demonstration purposes. “That gets by with me,” announced the officer. “And I’ll pass the word up the Avenue. But look out for the side-streets. Some of the cops on duty there are mean, suspicious guys that wouldn’t be above spoiling a pleasant evening.” “Jesse James,” observed the flit, turning admiringly to the sike, after the obstacle to progress had withdrawn, “as a psychologist you’re a high-class forger. That touch about ‘demonstration purposes’--that’s bad, I guess! We could swim the tank in Central Park Reservoir or shin it up the Obelisk on the strength of that.” “And to think,” sighed the sike, “that next week I’ll be burbling about ethics in a stuffy classroom.” “Maybe not,” returned the gob. “If Slayter does any more of his fancy evolutions, you may be in the hospital.” “Oh, I’ve got her now,” asseverated the helmsman confidently, starting up the machinery. “--levers,” he yelled, “control-caterpillars. Pull--right--and--” He did so, and the tank, executing a right about face, chased a horrified limousine half-way up a flight of brownstone steps. “Come back!” vociferated the exasperated flit, and hauled the left lever with such telling effect that (so the gob and the sike solemnly declare) the Waldorf-Astoria leaped a foot from its foundations and then escaped annihilation only by a fraction of an inch. “For Mike’s sake!” howled the gob. “Stick to the straight-and-narrow.” They lurched back into the main current, with a noise as of cosmic dissolution, and the traffic broke and fled before their measured progress. As they went, there came from the rear of the interior a sound faint, faraway, and vague like the plaint of a discouraged cricket. It was the sike singing: “We don’t know where we’re going But we’re on--our--way.” “That reminds me,” said the flit, shutting off. “Where _are_ we going?” “Rubbernecking,” suggested the gob. “I’ve got an idea,” offered the sike. “If the captain of this buoyant craft could steer around a corner--” “I can steer around any number of corners,” asserted the flit with a shade of offense in his tone. “Simultaneously,” added the gob. “Looka-here, Chaw!” cried the operator hotly. “If you don’t like the way I run this bus--”