Twelve miles of hard, fast walking, while the Virginia August sun made his head ache till every snapping farmhouse dog that ran out seemed like a dragon, and he could scarcely see the glaring fields, smelling of jimson and milkweed. The dust, the endless deep dust of the road, got into his throat and caked on his wet feet and legs. But he never stopped, and found his chauffeur waiting him, well on in the afternoon. The man grinned at his appearance, but he straightened up and dived out of the car, to crank up, startled at the way in which Poodle yelled, “Back to Washington—your best speed.” Poodle crawled wearily into the tonneau, and tried to scrape off some of the dirt. He had always dressed rather beautifully, but he couldn’t help his looks now. He hated to face the General’s servants, dirty as he was, but he’d just have to, he decided. They whirled into town shortly after six, and down M street toward General Thorne’s home. A servant somewhat curtly told this roughly dressed country boy that General Thorne was out at dinner. No; he didn’t know where. Poodle had to find the orderly who knew him before he could get the butler to tell him that the General was dining with the military attaché of the British Embassy, at the most gorgeous restaurant in Washington. Poodle hurried there. He broke through a line consisting of hat-boys, the head waiter, and the cigar-clerk, who tried to keep him out. He rushed up to the General’s table. The lackeys were horrified as they saw the young rustic, with dried mud up to his knees, and bits of old straw still clinging in his tangled hair, hurry to the General. They summoned a special policeman and started after him. But they stopped, amazed. For the General held out his hand, and motioned Poodle to take a seat at the table with him and the English attaché, a handsome gentleman with a monocle—and a surprised stare! Worried though he was, Poodle had to grin at the excitement now spreading through the whole restaurant. Then he whispered sharply to the General, “Found Hike—prisoner—taken by Jolls. In cabin—way over in Virginia. Captain Welch and Jolls have meeting there, to-night. Hike—Jerry, I mean—may be killed, for refusing to write a letter to Priest that Jolls wants. Will you take a couple of soldiers and come over there to-night, with Lieutenant Adeler and me, in the tetrahedral—get the goods on Welch?” “Yes,” whispered the General. “Get hold of Adeler, and I’ll meet you at the tetrahedral’s shed, right away.” “Right!” said Poodle, and walked away, with a military salute. He smiled a broad, cheerful, slightly insulting smile at the band of waiters and water-boys, who were still watching him suspiciously. As soon as he had got hold of Lieutenant Adeler, by telephone, he hurried to the tetrahedral’s shed, and started filling her fuel tank, looking after her oil, and polishing the search-light lens.