Peter Pettigrew's prisoner

by Nelson S. Bond

After tonight! Recollection flooded back upon Peter. He lifted himself to one elbow. He was lying on a cot in the upper drill-hall of the Armory. About him were the faces of his fellow student Air Wardens, uniformed figures of regular Army officers; the shoulder propping him up, the voice speaking into his ear, the face peering down into his, all belonged to Sergeant McCurdle. An inexplicably altered Sergeant McCurdle, whose eyes were respectful and admiring.

"Wh-what happened?" demanded Peter. "Ole Luk Oie—did he get away? And the Nazi agents—?"

"Old who?" puzzled McCurdle. "We got the Heinies—three of 'em. That's all there were, wasn't it? Man—" He shook his head admiringly—"I take back everything I ever said or thought about you, Pettigrew. You're a regular wildcat! Why, Joe Louis couldn't have knocked them babies colder than you did! Every one of 'em was out like a light. Their leader ain't come to yet. He's as cold as a Labrador herring."

Another voice, deeper and more authoritative, reached Peter's ears. It was the Commanding Officer of the Armory.

"Yes, Pettigrew, it was a magnificent piece of work. You have done your country a great service this night. Had it not been for you, I shudder to think what horror might have been unleashed in this city. You apprehended them in the nick of time. They had already scattered the gunpowder, set their fuses. In another moment—"

"Yes," said Peter. "I know. I mean—Oh, is that so? How about the—er—was there a bag lying on the floor? A bag filled with dust?"

The officers glanced at each other questioningly; one of them muttered sotto voce, "Wool-gathering, poor chap! And no wonder. After what he's been through—" The commandant ignored the query. He said, "So I am sending a recommendation to the President, Pettigrew, that you receive a Congressional Medal. Moreover, if you should ever decide to enter the service of your country as a full-fledged militiaman, I should be proud, sir, proud to have you as a member of my company!"

"And now, gentlemen—" With an effort, the officer concealed a yawn—"the hour is late, and I am sure we are all very tired. Suppose we—yaw-rrrm!—leave Mr. Pettigrew to get some much-needed rest."

And he trudged away, followed by a sleepy-eyed staff of subordinates. Peter thought he knew why. Someone had left the basement door open; mingled with the oil and tobacco smoke of the drill-room was a fine scud of eddying dust whose nature Peter knew all too well.

He, too, was drowsy again. But there was one thing he must say to his only remaining companion. "Sergeant," he said, "in the morning we must sweep the storage-room floor carefully, and send the dust to Washington. They've got to analyze it. Very important—"