"Never mind your shoelace!" commanded his antagonist. "Walk toward me slowly with your arms raised—There! Das ist gut! I see you wear a uniform. Tell me, little man, what is the strength of this garrison? When I make my report—"
Peter was grateful for the semi-gloom of the chamber. Were it not shadowy, the German must have noticed that though his arms were above his head his elbows bent with strain, and his knuckles were tensed whitely with the effort of gripping a heavy sack above his head. He shuffled forward another step. Another. Another....
"That is near enough!" said his captor. "Franz, you are nearly finished? You too, Otto? Gut! Light the fuses. In a moment we shall go. Well, little man, speak! Will you answer and be allowed to flee with us, or will you hold your silence and die here?"
"W-what is it you wanted to know?" bleated Peter Pettigrew, desperately stalling for time. He was almost within arm's reach of his foeman now. Another step....
"The strength of this garrison. Yes, I know you call it a 'civilian defense post', but that is dirty, democratic propaganda. Tell me the truth! How strong are your forces?"
And then—Peter acted!
"This strong!" he cried in a voice of shocking thunder. And with the full force of his meagre frame, supplemented by the unleashed vigor of his righteous wrath, he brought the sack down heavily on the Nazi's head!
The German cried out once, thickly—then collapsed. The bag split. A cloud of milky-gray powder spumed into the air, flew, spread, eddied into every nook and cranny. Franz and Otto had barely time to turn before it clogged their nostrils, felling them in their tracks like stricken steers. A stifling sensation gripped Peter Pettigrew by the throat.
Glancing down, he discovered with horror that in his eagerness to strike and strike hard he had torn his gas mask loose. Slumber-dust was now filtering through the crevice, stealing into his lungs, too!