As the tetrahedral fluttered down to its aerodrome, in Washington, the Captain stood up wearily. He seemed too tired to move. The two soldiers guarding him thought they would have an easy time. They plodded along beside him, silent.
Suddenly Hike, dragging himself along beside the others, made a leap and caught at the Captain’s arm.
It was too late. The Captain had already swallowed the liquid of a small bottle which he had drawn from his inner vest-pocket. He threw up his arms, cried out once, and sank in a pathetic heap.
Hike picked up the bottle, turned to the astonished General, and said, “Poison. Prussic acid. Works instantly, doesn’t it?”
Bending over the Captain, the General felt his heart. “Not dead yet,” he cried. “We may save him. You—” pointing to a soldier, “get an auto quick!”
The soldier stopped the car of a passer-by, who consented to take them to the General’s house. They roared by a policeman—with warning, uplifted hand—as though he didn’t exist. Down the streets, under the arc lights, they thundered, and drew up at the General’s house.
Poodle and the two soldiers had been left behind—to come on afterward. Hike and the General and the Lieutenant lifted out Captain Welch, and carried him into the house. He was left on a couch.
The General bustled into another room, to telephone for a doctor. Hike sat beside the couch, feeling the Captain’s pulse, while the Lieutenant was searching through the General’s cabinet, upstairs, for a medicine that would bring the Captain to. The room was very quiet. Hike felt himself nodding away, unable to keep awake, even now, when in the presence of what looked like death.
Through half-closed eyelids, he suddenly saw the Captain sit up, fling his legs off the couch, and aim a blow with closed fist.
Hike ducked and hit back, but the Captain rushed to a window—open to the summer night—and leaped out.