So it was some nifty little parade that I finally lines up to lead down Fifth Avenue. First there's me, then the drum corps, then the sergeant and his men rollin' them spools of wire. We strings out for more'n a block. You'd think New Yorkers were so used to parades by this time that you couldn't get 'em stretchin' their necks for anything less'n a regiment of hand-picked heroes. They've seen the French Blue Devils at close range, gawped at the Belgians, and chummed with the Anzacs. But, say, this spool-pushin' stunt was a new one on 'em. Folks just lined the curb and stared. Then some bird starts to cheer and it's taken up all down the line, just on faith. "Hey, pipe the new rollin' tanks!" shouts someone. "Gwan!" sings out another wise guy. "Them's wooden bombs they're goin' to drop on Willie." It's the first time I've been counted in on any of this hooray stuff, and I can't say I hated it. At the same time I tried not to look too chesty. But when I wheeled the procession into the side street and got 'em bunched two deep in front of the Plutoria's carriage entrance I ain't sure but what I was wearin' kind of a satisfied grin. Not for long, though. The six-foot taxi starter in the rear admiral's uniform jumps right in with the prompt protest. He wants to know what the blinkety-blink I think I'm doin', blockin' up his right of way in that fashion. "You can't do it! Take 'em away!" says he. "Ah, keep the lid on, old Goulash," says I. "Sergeant, if he gets messy, roll one of those spools on him. I'll be back shortly." With that I blows into the Plutoria and hunts up the tea room. The major's there, all right, and Mr. Ellins, also a couple of ladies. They're just bein' served with Oolong and caviar sandwiches. "Ah!" says the major, as he spots me. "Our gallant young office lieutenant, eh? Well, sir, anything to report?" "The spools are outside, sir," says I. "Wh--a--at!" he gasps. "Where'll you have 'em put, sir?" says I. About then, though, in trails the taxi starter, the manager and a brace of house detectives. "That's him!" says the starter, pointin' me out. "He's the one that's blockin' traffic." I will say this for the major, though, he's a good sport. He comes right to the front and takes all the blame. "I'm responsible," he tells the manager. "It's perfectly all right, too. Military necessity, sir. Well, perhaps you don't like it, but I'll have you understand, sir, I could block off your whole street if I wished. So clear out, all of you." "Why, Horace!" puts in one of the ladies, grabbin' him by the arm. "Yes, yes, my dear," says the major. "I know. No scene. Certainly not. Only these hotel persons must be put in their place. And if you will excuse me for a moment I'll see what can be done. Come, lieutenant. I want to get a look at those spools myself." Well, he did. "But--but I understood," says he, "that they were stuck in concrete or something of the kind."