Lieutenant Adeler and Poodle were walking out to Poodle’s new residence, that evening. Hike had gone home earlier, after a day’s sightseeing.
The Lieutenant noticed a quiet, strongly built man, with a slouch hat pulled low, following them out P street, but made nothing of it, taking the man for a reporter. But as he and Poodle crossed the Rock Creek bridge, the man ran up at them.
Poodle dropped behind. Out from a shabby house across the bridge two tough-looking negroes dashed. One of them held a revolver at the Lieutenant’s head, while the other sprang after Poodle.
Poodle sprang to the rail of the bridge and dropped down into the Rock Creek gully. As he did so, the man who had been following them fired down into the gully, twice.
Poodle crawled into weeds at the side of the creek. He hastened along on hands and knees. Dashing up from the hollow, he ran down Florida Avenue, looking for a policeman.
He found one peacefully strolling along his post, swinging his night-stick.
“Hold-up—army lieutenant held up—bridge!” Poodle gasped, pointing; and followed the policeman who, with drawn revolver, started running.
They found the Lieutenant seated on the rail, swinging his feet calmly and waiting.
“Hullo,” he sang out cheerfully. “Get away!”