And Grimper was _above_ me! As Hank and I climbed one side of the chain, the agent's inert body was being hauled up the other. He reached the cool sanctuary of the skylight before we did, lifted to safety by our combined weights, before I remembered the old monkey-weight-and-pulley puzzle that one time caused a near-riot in a staid academy of savants! * * * * * So all's well that ends well. It was an easy matter to unlash Grimper when we had reached the roof, an easier job yet to hurry him down a fire escape to the ground. And as my ever-logical friend had guessed, the fire-laddies put out the blaze before it spread to adjacent buildings; thus what might have proved a serious loss to America's _offense_ was held to a minimum. One building which could be easily replaced. We didn't leave town that night. We were exhausted, for one thing; for another, Hank was in no condition to board a train. His suitcase had been destroyed in the fire, and as he ruefully confessed to me when I asked his reason for _backing_ away from the wildly cheering mob that escorted us to our hotel, the fire had got in one last, farewell lick just as we escaped. Said caress had singed a neat, round hole in Hank's southern exposure. And the next day there came a hurry-call from Johnny Day. They had caught the saboteurs, or thought they had, and would we please come and identify them? So we did, and they were, and the Jerries were taken into custody by a detail of granite-eyed soldiers who gripped their Garands as if they hoped Hitler's hirelings _would_ break for freedom. Which of course they didn't. No longer holding the whip-hand, they were the meekest, humblest looking skunks you ever saw. It was then that Grimper, so trim and fresh that you would never know he'd almost been baked _Grimper au jus_, moved forward to shake Hank's hand. "Last night, Mr. Cleaver," he said, "I apologized to you. This morning I want to repeat that apology and wish you all possible success when you leave here." Hank just blushed and wriggled a bulldog-tipped shoe into the carpet. "Aw, that's all right, Mr. Grimper--" But if he could take it like that, I couldn't. In a fury I stepped forward and shoved my nose into Grimper's pan. "You may be an agent for Uncle Sam," I snarled, "and a joy to your loving mama--but you're a pain in the pants to me, Grimper! You've got one hell of a nerve. This man saved your life and MacDonald's plant after you fired him. And now you've got the almighty guts to wish him _bon voyage_! Well, I for one--" But, surprisingly, it was Old Mac who stopped me. "Now, take it easy, Blakeson," he said. "'Tisna the time to gripe and growse. Mr. Grimper kens his dooties as an agent o' Oncle Som. There's a cairtain amount o' accuracy in whut he says. There _is_ no fitting place here for Hank's peecoolyar talents--" "If not here," I howled, "then where on earth--?" "Now, Jim!" begged Hank mildly.