But--there was _another_ Peter Pettigrew! An unknown and unsuspected Peter Pettigrew in whose veins raced the fire of heroes, behind whose mild and tawny eyes burned slumbering volcanoes. This was the man--the laughing, taunting, daring champion of derring-do--whom Peter dreamed himself to be. A questing knight with thews of steel and agile mind and tongue of rapier wit. This was the man whom Peter was when, in dead of night, his meagre body tossing restlessly on bunchy kapok, his untrammeled soul rode the magic highways of Dream-world in search of dark adventure. This man was Peter when, blackness engulfing a lean, tense figure straining forward in his movie seat, Peter's hungry heart followed a shaft of silver brilliance to identify itself with whatever solitary soul was worst beset by the encroaching forces of evil. This was the strange, new Peter Pettigrew who _now_, a sliver of darkness in the shadow of a doorway, now smiled and hurled defiance at the hordes of foes arraigned against him. "_So!_" hissed Peter mockingly. "_So! You think you'd like to blow up the Armory, would you? Well, we'll see about that, you dirty, sneaky old Japs, you! Brrrp-brrrp-brrrp_--" His small frame trembled with excitement as he swept the gray street with imaginary Tommy-gun fire--"_there's no use crying for mercy now!_" laughed Peter triumphantly. "_You should have thought of that before you attacked us! Oh, it's_ knives _now? No, you don't! Remember Pearl Harbor! Brrrrrrp_--" "Cut out that damned racket! Stop it!" The roaring voice sheared a path through Peter's concentration, dealing a sudden end to his tiny, private drama. "What the hell do you think you're doing, anyhow? Who--Oh! I might have known!" Only gloom masked the sick mantle of Peter's crimson embarrassment. His heart within him shriveled to the size of a raisin, and leaden butterflies fluttered in his stomach. "H-hello, Sergeant McCurdle," he ventured weakly. 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!"