The Army man, more fiercely militant than ever, with his Colt .44 an ugly lump at his thigh, his gas mask over his shoulder, glared at the little volunteer malevolently.
"What in blazes is the meaning of all this noise and confusion, Pettigrew? Don't you know—?"
"I was—I was just pretending, sir," writhed Peter.
"Pretending what? Pretending to be a steam calliope or something? Anyhow, Pettigrew—" A sudden thought struck the non-com; he scowled at his wristwatch. "It's two minutes before twelve! Why are you still snooping around the Armory? Why aren't you at your post?"
"I—" began Peter. "I—"
"Never mind," interrupted McCurdle. "Never mind the alibis, Pettigrew. Disobedience of orders in an emergency—that's enough for me! You can turn in your uniform now! And goodbye, Mr. Pettigrew!"
"B-but—" faltered Peter.
"And," appended Sergeant McCurdle, "good riddance!"
"B-but this is my post, Sergeant!" wailed Peter. "I was assigned to guard this sector during the trial blackout!"