AIR-PILOT POODLE
Poodle had ridden seven miles behind the Jolls automobile, but he had
to walk twelve, for it was five miles from the hill where he had left
his own car to “the next town,” where he had told his chauffeur to
wait for him.
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.
The General arrived at eight, with two soldiers—an old sergeant,
who had fought hand-to-hand with Indians and Filipinos, in a
dozen battles; and a husky young private, who had a record as a
prize-fighter.
From the Hotel de Suisse, they received a message that Captain Welch
and Jolls had started out in a motor car, at about six.
“Let her go,” said the General, at that.
[Illustration: “WILL YOU TAKE A COUPLE OF SOLDIERS AND COME?”
_Page 148_
]
Lieutenant Jack Adeler got ready to take the pilot’s seat in the
_Hustle_, but General Thorne said, “I think my young friend Darby,
here, would like to run your aeroplane. Wouldn’t you, Torrington? Ah,
I thought so. Go ahead, then.”
To the Lieutenant he explained, “Mr. Adeler, it’s like this. If
you smashed us up—of course we _will_ get smashed up, flying in
this harum-scarum way, at night, it would be rank insubordination.
Lieutenants really ought not to kill Generals. Or, if you want me
to be serious with you, I think that young Darby here, by his work
to-day, has put himself right on a level with young Griffin, and you,
and I am quite serious in saying that I couldn’t give him higher
praise.”
Poodle blushed, as he took the levers. The _Hustle_ bumped down the
roadway, lighted by the search-light, and joltingly launched out into
the darkness.
He was rather trembly, but he was glad, too. What could be a greater
lark than to rescue Hike, good old Hike!
He sang to himself as he left the Potomac and, with the search-light
on, swung over to the road which he had followed earlier in the day.
When he had reached a spot about half a mile from the hill where
Hike was imprisoned, Poodle suddenly switched off all lights, shot
the _Hustle_ up to three thousand feet, snapped off the motor, and
made a long glide toward the top of the hill. For the first time, he
wished that cool Hike were at the levers, instead of him. It was a
terrific strain. Silent as a night-flying owl, yet with a swift drop,
the _Hustle_ shot down toward the top of the hill. The many planes
creaked quietly. Then they circled, and landed in the fields just
beyond the marshes at the bottom of the hill, all so quietly that
none of the guards could have heard them.
They climbed out, and filed through the marshes. The General, who had
so cheerfully acted as merely a passenger while on the _Hustle_, took
charge, and with quick, sharp, whispered orders led them through the
mud and brush to the foot of the hill.
“Adeler, you and the soldiers stay here. Darby and I will climb up
and try to get on the roof of the cabin. Thatched—we can hear through
it. When I light a match up there, you charge up and get into the
fight. We’ll capture Captain Welch, if I find that he’s guilty of
plotting with Jolls. We’ll have to let the others go—we have no civil
warrant for them. But we can damage them a little, and set the police
on them directly. Come on, Darby—you’ll have to lead up, you know the
lay of the land.”
The General had been used to an easy life, these last few years, but
it kept Poodle hurrying, crawling on his stomach up through the grass
and shrubs, to keep ahead of him. Once, when their heads were near
each other, he could make out that the General’s jaws were set like
iron.
They stole up to the cabin, and heard the five guards lazily talking
near the door, in front.
“Give me a leg up,” hissed the General, and climbed the low back
wall, clutching at the thatch of the roof, and dragging himself
up. He thrust down a hand to Poodle and pulled him after; then the
two of them lay flat as shingles on the roof, for a guard was just
meandering about the cabin, humming.
The General was still panting from his exertions; and he whispered
to Poodle, “Well, young man, what do you think of a man of my age
and rank crawling up cabins that don’t even belong to me, as though
I were a boy shinning up a tree for apples!” But he didn’t seem very
angry, as he patted Poodle on the shoulder.
With slightly raised head, Poodle leaned on his elbows, digging down
into the rotten old thatch. He had to lift out all the straw, lest
it fall through and give them away to any one beneath. But in a few
moments he had a sizable hole, through which they could listen to
anything that went on within the cabin.
It was time they _were_ listening!
Four of the five guards had entered the cabin. A stocky man addressed
by the others as Bat was arguing with a sleezy fellow called
Snafflin. “Aw thunder,” Bat was urging, “give the kid a little while
longer, Snafflin, you whopperjawed jackass.”
“Look here, you mutton-head” (Snafflin really called him something
much worse, but what he said would better not be repeated here),
“you know what the Boss said; ‘Give him till eight o’clock. Then
if he won’t come around and write the letter, tie him up in the
swamp.’ It’s way after eight now, and either you tie him up or— Well,
there’ll be a new leader in this cute little band of cutthroats,
savvy?”
“Speak for yourself—about being a cutthroat, Snafflin. Me, there is
one throat I hope to cut—yours. One of these days I’ll _get_ you,
Snafflin, just remember that. Now—well, you guys are four to one.
We’ll tie up the kid.”
Then, speaking to Hike, Bat continued:
“Kid, I’m sure sorry I’ve got to do this. Cummon now, won’t you sign
the letter? Aw, cummon!”
“Nope, Bat, I can’t do it. Sorry.” Poodle could just make out Hike’s
tired smile as he said it, tied up, down there in the frowsy cabin.
“So’m I sorry. Well, kid, here goes.”
The door opened, and Poodle and the General could see the four men
leading out Hike, while the fifth man, still on guard, brought up the
rear, rifle on his arm. Hike, with his feet hobbled and his wrists
tied tight, stumbled along weakly.
Poodle whispered to the General, “I’ll sneak down and let him loose,
and beat it back up here.”
“Good. Go ahead.”
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.”
“Poodle, my son, you are a jackass,” were Hike’s first words to his
rescuer.
“Hike, my child, you are a goat,” was Poodle’s retort; after which
they solemnly shook hands again, stopped being boys for a while, and
Poodle hastily led the way to the Lieutenant and his soldiers, where
Hike was to wait and join the charge on the cabin.
Poodle hastened back to his nook on the thatch. He was hardly in
place, beside the hole through the roof, when excitement began in the
dingy room beneath.