“The Lieutenant’s tried his best to get an opening to report before the Board,” Hike went on, “but Dad’s still got the idea the tetrahedral won’t work, and he won’t recommend the Lieutenant’s application for a chance to talk and so I guess the Loot’s got pretty sore, and is just planning to put all his own money behind our—your, I mean—tetrahedral, and let the government’s money go hang. I don’t think we ought to let him do that, do you, Mr. Priest?” “No, I don’t,” said Martin Priest, sadly, shaking his head. “Well, then,” said Poodle, “why don’t you take the _Hustle_ to Washington, Mr. Priest, and show her to the Board?” “No, no. I couldn’t do that,” Martin Priest exclaimed. “I’d be—oh, I don’t know. I suppose it was my experience in prison, but I’d be afraid of all those gold-laced kings. I feel that if they want my machine—it’s a good machine, I’ve done my work on it—it’s up to them to come and inspect it. If your Captain Welch wouldn’t even look at it—why, what chance would I have with a general?” “Rats!” sniffed Poodle. “I’ll bet the General’s twice as easy a man to talk to as that snortling Willoughby-Walloughby.” “He sure is,” said Hike. “He stayed with Dad for two days once, at Rock Island Arsenal. Old friend of Dad’s. He’s awf’ly nice, General Thorne is.” “No, no, no!” insisted Martin Priest. “I couldn’t face that Board. They’d get me angry, and I’d spoil all my chances for—” He ceased. All three kept silent. Outside the aerodrome, the sunset glowed. Hike was tramping about uneasily, looking at the reflection of the gold and crimson, in the east. Suddenly he said to Poodle: “See that light. Pretty, ain’t it?” “Classy sunset,” declared Poodle, dreamily. Hike suspected that, in spite of Poodle’s slang, he was planning a poem. Poodle had once had a poem in the Santa Benicia school paper, and no one knew but that he might break out that way again. Suddenly Hike said, “Sure is great. And we’ll see it nearer. Pood’, we’re going to sail right into that light there in the east. _We’re going to take the_ Hustle _to Washington!_ Do you hear, Mr. Priest? Poodle and I are going to go and interview that Army Board. Thirty hours from now we’ll be there. Got enough gasoline and oil for three thousand miles?” “Yes!” Priest was shouting with excitement. “Fill her tanks. Poodle, I’ll write a note to Father saying where we’re gone—you take it up to the house. I’ll get the grub for the trip and pack her aboard.” Hike was the only calm one of the three. “All right. Great!” Poodle yelled, while Martin Priest hurried to fill the _Hustle’s_ fuel-tank. In half an hour, Martin Priest stood at the door of the aerodrome, looking to the east at a moving black spot. The tetrahedral was disappearing into the gray sky, with Hike at the levers.