Hike had then sat on his legs, like a Turk, and raising his long arms declared, “Poodski, never before did I know that you are the greatest poet in the world, but now I see that you are.” * * * * * When Hike and Poodle found Captain Willoughby-Wibbelty Welch, lover of the aeroplanes of P. J. Jolls, the good Captain was smoking a long thin cigar, sitting in a Chinese wicker chair on the porch of his quarters. He smiled that silky, sneaky, snakey, sneery smile of his (at least, that’s what Poodle said his smile was, afterwards), and called out as they came up the walk, “Ah! Home again, boys?” “No,” whispered Poodle to Hike. “We’re still at the South Pole fishing for bread-fruit-fish with a crow bar. Foolish question eleventy thousand and one.” “Well, how did the gallant heroes find the long trek?” smiled Captain Welch. “Great,” Hike gravely said. “Captain, way down the coast—in a canyon, where he wouldn’t be disturbed at his experiments—there’s an aviator chap with a—uh—a tet-ra-hé-dral aeroplane that’s the fastest machine in the world, and that’d carry the most weight. He hasn’t got the engine to fly her right, but I wish I could get you to come down and talk it over with him. I’d like to bet you’d find it was just the machine the War Department is looking for, for the army aeroplane.” “What makes you think it’s the fastest machine in the world?” Captain Welch was still smiling, but he looked more patronizing than ever. “Why, he explained it to me, Captain. And I saw it. And it strikes me as so awf’ly reasonable. I’m sure it’s worth some looking into, anyway.” Hike felt fussed. His argument did not sound convincing. “Why, my _boy_, there isn’t a crank aviator on earth that won’t tell you the fool machine he’s made out of barrel hoops and cheese cloth would fly if he only had the engine. He _knows_ it will, and won’t you please let him have the money and you’ll get seventy per cent. He’s always sure it would pay you to look into it. Why, my _boy_, one of the principal tasks of the Signal Corps is keeping cranks with wonderful inventions away. They’d use up all your time, if you’d let them. You just take my advice and don’t listen to them.” The Captain stood up, yawned like a nice tabby cat, smoothed his neat little mustache, smiled, and started to go into the house. “O Captain,” called Hike, “won’t you come down—fine ride—and just take a _look_ at the—” “Couldn’t. Really. Haven’t time. Must finish up my report for the Board of Aviation,” the Captain said, very sweetly, but as though he considered the business finished. “Wibbelty!” whispered Poodle. “Wobbelty!” whispered Hike. Their last chance was in Lieutenant Jack Adeler, the youngest officer in the Signal Corps at Monterey.