You don't get ideas from smells," he answered soberly.

In the Quartermaster's office he waited on a bench while Mr. Conne and
several other men, two in uniform and two that he thought might be
Secret Service men, talked in undertones. If he had been a hero in a
book, to use Mr. Conne's phrase, these officials would doubtless have
been assembled about him listening to his tale, but as it was he was
left quite out of the conference until, near its end, he was summoned to
tell of his capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer and asked if he thought
he could identify a close relation of that high and mighty personage
simply by seeing him pass as a total stranger.

Tom thought he might "by a special way," and explained his knowledge of
breed marks and specie marks. He added, in his stolid way, that he had
another idea, too. But they did not ask him what that was. One of the
party, a naval officer, expressed surprise that he had ridden all the
way from Cantigny and asked him if it were not true that part of the
road was made impassible by floods. Tom answered that there were floods
but that they were not impassible "if you knew how." The officer said he
supposed Tom knew how, and Tom regarded this as a compliment.

Soon, to his relief, Mr. Conne took all the papers in the case and left
the room, beckoning Tom to follow him. Another man in civilian clothes
hurried away and Tom thought he might be going to the dock. It seemed to
him that his rather doubtful ability to find a needle in a haystack had
not made much of an impression upon these officials, and he wondered
ruefully what Mr. Conne thought. He saw that his arrival with the
papers had produced an enlivening effect among the officials, but it
seemed that he himself was not taken very seriously. Well, in any event,
he had made the trip, he had beaten the ship, delivered the message to
Garcia.

"I got to go down and turn my grease cup before I forget it," he said,
as they came out on the little stone portico again.

Several soldiers who were soon to see more harrowing sights than a
bunged-up motorcycle, were gathered about _Uncle Sam_, gaping at him and
commenting upon his disfigurements. Big U. S. A. auto trucks were
passing by. A squad of German prisoners, of lowering and sullen aspect,
marched by with wheelbarrows full of gray blankets. They were keeping
perfect step, through sheer force of habit. Another dispatch-rider (a
"local") passed by, casting a curious eye at _Unc