I'm goin' to
provide your squad with a little music. Might as well do this in style,
eh? Wait a minute."

And it wasn't long before I was back from another dash into the park
towin' half a drum corps that I'd borrowed from some Junior Naval
Reserves that was drillin' over on the ballfield.

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."