McCurdle's shrug was eloquent.
"Well, it's Uncle Sam's headache. If you persist in wasting the government's time and money, I can't prevent it." To the others he said, "That's all for tonight, folks. We're having a practice blackout at midnight, remember. City-wide. Every Warden must be at his post by then. You all know where your locations are? All right—hop to 'em! Eh? What? Oh, you again, Pettigrew? Well, what do you want now?"
"Excuse me, sir," said Peter meekly, "but—what was my mistake? What was the first thing I should have done?"
"Done?" thundered Sergeant McCurdle. "Why, any fool knows you should have—er—er—" His brows furrowed, then cleared miraculously. "Don't try to make me do your thinking for you, Pettigrew! That's your assignment, not mine. Think it out. And see that you've arrived at the correct answer by our next meeting. All right—class dismissed!"
"No hose," said Peter Pettigrew to himself, "no sand or siren or telephone. Fire spreading rapidly. Warehouse is filled with inflammable supplies—Oh, it's no use! McCurdle was right. I guess I'm just a—a misfit!"
The last word came out "mzzglmmp," punctuated, as it was, by something suspiciously akin to a sigh ... or a sob.
There is an estimated total of two hundred and sixty thousand volunteer Air Raid Wardens now training for civilian defense duty in the United States. Of this number, about two hundred and fifty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine had greater aptitude for their jobs than did Peter Pettigrew.
Two strikes had been called on this unhappy child of misfortune, and the Celestial Umpire's arm was already rising on the third, when Peter wailed entrance into this mad world. To begin with, as a specimen of manhood Peter Pettigrew was a washout. Padded shoulders helped conceal his spindling frame and built-up heels added a futile inch to his diminutive stature, but no aids, mechanical or sartorial, could ever remove the anemic pallor from his complexion, lend distinction to an unruly fuzz of taffy-colored hair, or cleanse his eyes of the pathetic wistfulness which mirrored his personality. Peter's physical counterpart was the photo labelled Before in the "BE STRONG LIKE ME!" ads.
Moreover, Peter was shy. Terribly, horribly, inconceivably shy of everything and anything that walked, swam, or flew on, under, or above the surface of the earth. He gulped when he talked, and never raised his voice to a degree louder than a timid bleat. Strangers frightened him ... acquaintances embarrassed him ... and he had no friends. He turned every hue of the rainbow when so much as noticed by members of the fair sex, and ate always in cafeterias in order to avoid the dread task of ordering from a waitress.