Poodle was already sliding down the thatch, and crawling after the thugs and their victim. In the thick bank of weeds at the edge of the woods, he nestled comfortably, and grinned as he thought how horribly fooled were the five thugs there, who were tying up Hike so securely. They were talking quietly, taking it for granted that no one nearer than Washington had any idea what they were up to. In the light of the lanterns they carried, Poodle could see them pass a heavy line about Hike many times, fastening him to a fir of prickly, uncomfortable bark, which would scratch Hike every time he moved. Hike’s feet were left in thick mud; and away from him stretched pools thick with mosquitoes. Even Poodle, with his hands free to brush them away, was terribly annoyed by these pests, as he crouched and waited; and when he thought of Hike, trying to drive them off, with his hands tight bound, and his skin scratched by the bark every time he moved, gentle Poodle wanted very much to kill the whole bunch. The thugs filed away, talking (Poodle could hear them) of whether “The Boss”—probably P. J. Jolls—would leave Hike there to die, or release him. “He’ll never sign that letter, that’s sure,” said Bat. “Well, he might ’a’ done it if it hadn’t been for your blankety blank butting in,” snarled Snafflin. Poodle saw Bat stop, calmly raise a lantern, and look at Snafflin, till those vicious, yellowed eyes were turned away. Then Poodle slipped into the muddy edge of the marsh; hastily crawled through to Hike, and whistled low, adding “Shhhh!” He pulled out his little penknife, and hacked away at the bonds, with Hike busily pulling at the cord as it frayed through. So at last Hike stood free, beside the thorny-barked fir. For a moment he staggered. Then he abruptly sat down, in the wet brush. Poodle sat down beside him. They shook hands; not saying a word as yet, and with one accord these aviators, these meddlers with Army Boards and wealthy manufacturers, burst softly into the highly grown-up and dignified Santa Benicia Freshman Class song; written by that excellent young poet Mr. Poodle Darby: “We stung ’em, see? We stung ’em, see? Oh, the Soph-o-mores are wild. She tied the train to a jim-jam tree, But we wept and chid the child. We wept and chewed the chilled ice cream, And oh, but she had a pain. So we climbed in a team and we dreamed us a dream She had untied the train.” “H. G. Griffin,” remarked Poodle, “if you can’t find anything better to do at this crisis than to sing things like that, I think you’d better just jolly well get tied up again. There’s Jack Adeler and two sojers over across the clearing waiting for the General’s signal, and General Thorne is lying on top of the cabin, getting his trousers all nice and dirty with thatch, and saying ‘O cuss! O trunions!’ every time he slaps a mosquito. And here you beat it into this very nasty swamp to study nature.”