“A hold-up,” observed the flit. He stopped the engine, just as a fourth bullet, deflected from the upper armor, crashed through a brightly illuminated second-story window. There was the sound of a meeting adjourning _sine die_, and an oratorically-garbed gentleman, thrusting his head out of an upper window, sounded the alarum, “Bolshe_vee_ki! Bolshe_vee_ki!” in a melancholy and monotonous shriek. The pursuing policeman rushed around to the front of the tank. “Lady says you killed her dog,” he announced. “Open up.” The flit obligingly opened the door to explain. Straightway the officer’s gun was brought to bear upon his head. “Now, you stay put,” came the grim order. The flit stayed. But not for long. Acting, apparently, quite on its own initiative, the machine gun of the forward turret deliberately and noiselessly swung about until it pointed accurately at the third button, counting upward, of the policeman’s tunic. It is very disconcerting to have a machine gun aim itself at the pit of one’s stomach, particularly when there is no evidence as to whether it is loaded or not. And a machine gun always looks loaded. The cop blinked and wavered. A solemn voice emerged from the hollow interior: “‘Who touches a hair of yon red head Dies like a dog! March on!’ he said.” “Whaddye mean, ‘red head’?” indignantly demanded the flit, who was sensitive on the subject; and he ducked inside seeking explanation. The gob immediately pulled-to the steel door. “We will now parley,” he announced. The officer took off his helmet and fanned a wrinkled brow. “You gotta keep off this street,” he said, but without conviction. “Why?” demanded the gob. “You’re a truck,” said the cop. “You’re another,” retorted the flit hotly. “We’re a pleasure-car; that’s what we are!” “Well, you’re a heavy traffic, anyway,” argued the cop. “You got no right here.” “Lightest tank in the service,” declared the gob. “Less than six tons on the hoof. Stripped down for speed, in light marching accouterment with one day’s ammunition and a marked-down meal ticket, we’re only--” “For Gawd’s sake!” broke in the harassed officer; “git off my beat before I report yer, if I can think of somethin’ to report that the Cap would believe.” Thus delivered from the Philistines, the equipage proceeded, amid the wonder and consternation of an ear-smitten public. But there was one who paid no tribute of notice to its thunderous progress. He stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue, and gazed into vacancy. The gleam of his candid shirt-front attracted the eye of the gob, who was acting as lookout. “Lighthouse off the port bow,” he informed the chauffeur. “Seems to be deserted. Run alongside; I fain would hail it.” The tank, after a preliminary wobble, drew up, facing the abstracted individual. He deigned to droop an uninterested eye at it, and straightway resumed his contemplation of nothingness. The gob semi-emerging from the tank’s door, addressed him. “Cab, sir?”