“Comes down to a family party, doesn’t it? On your way, Eugenia!” commanded the youth crisply.
She shook her head. “When you go, Peter—after you’ve got it out.”
“’Atta boy, Madame President!” He grinned at her sunnily, picking up the heavy stool on which Luke Manders sat to keep the Altonia’s books and advancing on the cupboard.
“Wait!” Glen was back, breathless, her face crimson. “There are some other keys here—” She tore open a desk drawer, fished out a jingling bunch and flew across the room, fitting one after another into the lock with steady fingers.
Peter Parker took the keys away from her. “Good girl, but this is my Roman holiday. You take Eugenia out into the great open spaces, will you, please? And Eugenia, will you please take care of Glen for me—extra special care? This is a solo act. Your presence is distinctly not requested!” He looked over his shoulder at them reprovingly. “Darling dumb-bells, did you hear what I said! Out! You aren’t helping a bit, and you cramp my style! But at that,” he chuckled tenderly, “it is to be admitted that you are there a million! Page Molly Pitcher!” He threw the keys, jingling, to the floor. “Not a leaf stirring! We crash the gate! Out, you nit-wits!”
The old, warped door of the little closet splintered into fragments at the first blow.
“There she is!” He crowed in triumph, lifting out a crudely fashioned box. “Common or garden variety! A child can run it! Steady, girls—back, please! ’Way for the Lord High Executioner! Sports of all nations—opening bombs in the Sunny South!” He was in the hall; he was at the door, out of the door, in the lane, running ... running ... running....
“Back! Keep back!”
He was far ahead, but his voice seemed to stay behind with them as they ran after, holding each other back, urging each other on.
“All right!” Janice Jennings screamed to the mill hands, herded in the narrow halls, fighting their way to the doors, falling over the threshold—“It’s all right, I tell you! He’s got the bomb out! Everything’s all right!”