"Peabody here (dog genius), and this is my boy Sherman. Say hello, Sherman."

"Hello," said Sherman. "Where and when are we going today, Mr. Peabody?"

"Set the Wayback Machine for Cairo, Egypt and the year 1916, Sherman. We're off to visit Lt. T. E. Lawrence of the British Royal Army." Sherman adjusted the controls and we stepped into the Wayback Machine (my own invention, by the way) and in less time than it takes to tell it we were standing outside Lieutenant Lawrence's personal quarters. I knocked on the door and a voice inside bade us enter. We were soon in the presence of the illustrious army officer.

"I say, chaps! How do I look?" Lt. Lawrence said. Sherman and I stood there aghast at what we saw.

"You look lovely," I finally ventured to say. "Are you on your way to a costume ball?" Standing in front of a full length mirror, Lt. Lawrence was attired in an Egyptian belly dancer costume. It looked really quite fetching on him.

"Well, no," Lt. Lawrence replied. "The higher-ups want me to organize the Arabs into a guerilla fighting force to go against those blighters, the Ottoman Turks. I figured this is the best way to attract those Arab blokes' attention before I can pitch the sale. Watch this." The British army officer turned the crank on a Victrola a few revolutions and set a record to playing a lively Middle Eastern dance tune. He struck a seductive pose and began to sway his hips and undulate his belly in time to the drum beat. I could tell he'd had a lot of practice and acquitted himself quite well in his performance. I thought about placing a protective paw over Sherman's eyes but his glasses were already fogged up so it was just as well. The lieutenant finished his dance routine with a dizzying whirl and a spectacular split. Sherman and I applauded appreciatively and threw coins of the local currency his way.

"That's not even my best material," said Lt. Lawrence as he rushed about picking up the coins. "Just watch those wankers flock to me."

"I'm sure you'll get all the attention you could possibly want," I replied, "but it's bound to be the wrong type of attention."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're more likely to wind up as a sheikh's harem girl rather than the leader of a guerilla force in a getup like that."

"That wouldn't be so bad," said Lawrence and his eyes took on a dreamy look. He then looked guiltily at me and cleared his throat. "I, uh, see what you mean. I guess I've wasted a lot of time and money on costumes and lessons."

"Not necessarily," I said in an effort to console him. "Perhaps you could do stag parties and smokers after you complete your main mission. In the meantime, why don't you consider wearing something a little more modest... and a little less feminine?"

"Jolly good idea! I have just the thing," Lt. Lawrence cried and scurried behind a changing screen. In no time at all he reappeared in a completely different outfit.

"Gosh, Mr. Peabody," said Sherman. "The Arab fighters will never accept Lt. Lawrence as their leader if he dresses like that."