"The fire extinguishers," howled McCurdle gleefully, "have been diluted with soda pop! The alarm siren was stolen by Quislings! The telephone wires are cut! The force of the explosion broke the windows, and wind is fanning the blaze! "The floor is scorching beneath your feet, the walls are ablaze, tongues of flame are licking at precious boxes of _matériel_! Think, Mr. Pettigrew! Think hard! Many lives and much valuable property depend on your prompt action. What do you do? What is the first thing your hand must seek?" * * * * * The room was warm, but a cold perspiration moistened Peter Pettigrew's brow. His eyes roved, his collar strangled him. His tongue was a wad of cotton. "Why--er--" he muttered feverishly. "_Wrong!_" Sergeant McCurdle seized the word, worried it as a terrier worries a rubber bone. "_Never_ wire! Wire is the last thing you should touch, Pettigrew. Under conditions such as those described, wire would be melting-hot. It would burn the flesh off your bones! "No--" He stared at the smaller man disdainfully--"No, Mr. Pettigrew, I fear you would be of no use in an emergency of this nature. As a matter of fact, I don't think you belong in this group. Some men, Pettigrew, simply don't fit. You seem to be one of them. Why don't you drop out? Turn in your uniform and enter some other branch of civilian service? Canteen work, for instance, or knitting sweaters--?" Someone behind Peter Pettigrew tittered, and someone else muttered, "That's right! If a man can't do a man's work he ought to--" Peter's lower lip trembled, and the stalwart figure of Sergeant McCurdle danced before his eyes. He shook his head doggedly. "But--but I _like_ this work, Sergeant. I _want_ to be an Air Raid Warden." 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!"