“Pals is right,” stated the flit heartily, “if you was at Argonne Woods. And as man to man and one having experience, I’d advise you to handle her likewise. Not bite her ear off, you get me? But join the tanks and treat ’em rough.” “Precisely why I hired this cab.” “So woman is your trouble,” observed the sike. “I salute you, Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts.” “The devil you do!” retorted that gentleman. “When did you graduate into the Intelligence Department? Or have I met you in a previous existence?” “Neither. It is quite simple,” began the sike, when a swelling, soaring, blare from up the Avenue cut him short. “Mr. Foxley requests the courtesy of a clear path,” said Mr. Watts. “Sure,” remarked the flit between his teeth. “Sic ’em, Maudie!” Gathering speed, the tank proceeded to weave and writhe across the roadway in a manner suggestive of a beetle with the stomach-ache. Hoots, rude, imperative and monitory, sounded from ahead. A huge green car manned by a huge red youth came rushing down upon them. At sight of the tank, the car emitted a sublimated yawp of surprise and horror followed by penetrating shrieks as the brakes bit in, the youth uttered a whoop of desperation, the outfit hit the unmoved tank slantwise, skimmed across the sidewalk on two wheels and sought cover in a window placarded “Special Bargains in Lingerie” whence presently emerged the almost total ruin of Mr. Foxley draped pinkly in a chemise. It beat the air with frenzied hands, yelled feebly, and disappeared around the corner in the direction of its club. Revivified later (though not by the usual agencies, which he resolutely refused, to the alarm of his fellows), Mr. Foxley related how, while driving quietly down the Avenue he had been beset by a mud-turtle in armor. A very large, ferocious, prehistoric mud-turtle, waving an American flag, which without provocation had attacked his unoffending car, bitten off its two front wheels and chased it through a plate-glass window. And as for him, he wouldn’t care if July first came to-morrow! He was off it! “Where do they come from and why did they let ’em out?” demanded Mr. Foxley passionately. The maligned tank, passing upon its sentimental quest, was now spreading the echoes of Bedlam through peaceful Park Avenue. At number eight-seventy-seven, the equipage stopped. The clamor didn’t. A surprised and extremely attractive face beneath the cap of the National League for Woman’s Service Motor Corps appeared at a third-floor window. “Shut off! Shut off!” yelled Reuben Renssalaer Watts. “I want to talk to her.” “Can’t,” bellowed the flit. “She’s jammed.” The face at the window became indignant. It made urgent gestures like a policeman. “The lady wants us to move on,” the gob informed the perspiring Mr. Watts.