"Mister Pettigrew!"
The daydream of Peter Pettigrew, student Air Warden, popped like a penny balloon. He started from his bench, pale eyes blinking bewilderedly. The enemy agent had disappeared. This was no blacked-out and vital defense zone, no strategically important military objective, but the warm, bright, all-too-familiar lecture room of the city Armory. All about him, giggling at his confusion, sat his fellow students, more than four score strong. Glaring at him wrathfully was the regular Army non-com assigned to training this volunteer brigade.
"Well, Mr. Pettigrew," repeated Sergeant McCurdle in acid tones, "if you've quite finished your little nap—?"
"Y-yes, sir!" gulped Peter Pettigrew apologetically. "I—I'm sorry, sir. I must have dozed off."
"In the Army," growled McCurdle ominously, "soldiers who doze off wake up in the clink! I'd like to see you—But never mind that now. Before you were so rudely awakened, Mr. Pettigrew, we were discussing bomb defense. Now, suppose you tell us the proper way of handling an incendiary bomb. Let's assume you are guarding a wooden warehouse filled with highly inflammable military stores.
"An incendiary shell scores a direct hit; concussion knocks you out momentarily. When you come to, you learn that the bomb has exploded and is scattering gouts of flame around the building. What do you do?"
"I—er—I run to the water-hose," said Peter, "and turn the nozzle to fine spray—"
"The water system is broken," said Sergeant McCurdle helpfully. "Saboteurs have slashed the hose to ribbons."
"Then I—I get buckets and sand, and—"
"Fifth columnists," challenged McCurdle, "have mixed gunpowder into the sand."