Out upon the sidewalk stepped the sike. He faced the lovely and indignant apparition overhead and squared his manly form. With his right hand he majestically indicated the zenith; his left he placed tenderly upon the pit of his stomach. Immediately he thrust his left north-northeast and started a pivot-blow with the other. He then boxed the compass in swift, successive two-arm movements. The ornament of the window nodded and disappeared. “See here!” said Mr. Watts. “Do you _know_ that lady?” “I do not,” returned the sike, “though I live in hopes.” “Then why the convulsions?” demanded Mr. Watts severely. “Semaphoring, my dear sir. I simply wigwagged the lady that if she would descend to Mother Earth, a communication of semi-official import having a vital bearing on her prospects in life would be made to her. _Or_ words to that effect,” said the sike. “The rest is up to you.” The final observation might well have been addressed to the Mayor of New Rochelle, as, coincident with its utterance the chauffeur had stilled his engine. He joined the sidewalk group, followed by the gob. The girl emerged. “Is it an ambulance job?” she asked professionally. “No, madam,” answered the sike. “Then why did you S. O. S. me?” Mr. Reuben Renssalaer Watts stepped forward. “Renny!” she exclaimed and turned to a pink so delicate and bewitching that the gob hastily and surreptitiously extracted his beloved quid and tossed it under the iron monster. “A social call,” said that gentleman. “Good evening, Carey.” He stepped forward and with nonchalance and promptitude kissed the newcomer fair and full upon the lips. “Renny!” gasped the girl; and the pink deepened to a fiery red. “Wh-Wh-What--how--are you crazy?” “I’ve joined the tanks,” exclaimed Mr. Watts urbanely. “‘Treat ’em rough’ is our motto. Come and have a joy-ride on me.” The girl recovered herself. “Who are these gentlemen?” “Hanged if I know. I hired the crew with the ship and they are now my fellow piratical voyagers on faerie seas forlorn. Fellows, this is Miss Carey Vail.” “Pleased to meetcher,” said the flit, stepping forward courteously. “My name’s Mr. Slayter. The gob, here, is Chaw Veeder. He’s rough stuff from the gas-house, but with ladies present he’ll kindly soft-pedal. The other guy is a stuffed professor at home, at present considerable alive. Name, Perfessor James.” He turned to address Watts. “Now, where to, sir?” “Where do you suggest?” * * * * * “If this is a ladies’ game,” responded the flit tentatively, “there’s a party named Miss Nora McSears who cashes at an all-night restaurant on East Fifty-eighth Street, very clean and respectable.” “Right! Go to Fifty-eighth Street. Will you get in, Carey?” Miss Carey Vail sniffed the air daintily and observed the tank with doubt. “Do you think your steed is safe?” she asked.