“Eh? What?” said the other vaguely. “Taxi, sir? Fine night for a ride,” said the gob persuasively. “Certainly,” assented the bystander with the air of one who welcomes any diversion, however slight. He stepped inside. “Where to, sir?” The fare considered. “Eight-seventy-seven Park Avenue,” he said at length. “What for?” interposed the flit with suspicion. “To make a polite and formal call on a young lady.” “Look at the time,” protested the flit. “Won’t she be asleep?” “Not after little Pussyfoot enters the block,” said the fare with conviction. “Besides that--have I hired this hack or haven’t I?” “You sure have,” confirmed the gob. “Montmorency, behave!” he admonished the flit. “We are about to go into Society. I can tell it by the address. By the left wheel, _hrrumph_!” “One moment,” said the passenger. “It is my duty to tell you that Bingle Foxley will be coming down the Avenue drunk and chiefly on the wrong side, about this hour.” “Who’s he?” demanded the chauffeur. “The Demon Motorist. Traffic rules are a red rag to him. As a cousin of the Big Chief he’s immune from arrest, and gets a clear path.” “What’s the big idea?” demanded the flit. “Just so that you can slide out the way when you hear his siren,” returned the fare, with apparent innocence. The flit grinned. “Ick hobby dick, Steefen, as we say in Coblenz,” he observed. “We’re off.” * * * * * The Fifth Avenue traffic obligingly made way again. After essaying several polite and casual observations in a stentorian tone, with the effect of a microbe’s whisper, the passenger gathered together his vocal powers, and stuck his voice into the gob’s ear. “I want to explain. I’m going to LET YOU INTO A LITTLE SECRET,” he bellowed into a suddenly developed stillness, consequent upon the flit’s shutting off power at a crowded corner. “One little tone louder,” suggested the gob, “and you’ll let in South Norwalk and the Oranges.” “Let me explain to you all,” said the passenger while the gathering crowd outside passed the word that the tank was conveying a violently mad German spy to the asylum. “I’m very much interested in--” “Not me!” expostulated the flit. “The last guy in a dress suit that explained what he was very much interested in, got me very much interested too, and stung me four months’ pay for four cents’ worth of phony stock.” “This is a young lady,” said the other, with dignity. “She objects to me because she says I am too proper and conventional to be really human.” “Are you?” inquired the sike with interest. “Before the war, possibly. I admit it.” “And the war cured you?” “Judge for yourself. The third day of the Argonne debate I nearly got court-martialed for biting a chunk out of my captain’s ear. It was dark, and I thought when we came together after the charge and he tried to gouge my left eye out, that he was a Fritzie. Now I put it to you as pals, _is_ that overrefined and finicky?”