“And not upset the fluggermeister,” said Zebediah, nodding.

“You shut up!” said Winifred and Wilfred.

“Right,” said the soldier. “The thing is, I’m not supposed to leave my station. While I’m in the woods, a Japanese spy could zip right in here. Then what?”

“The woods are just a short hike from the house,” said Old Tom. “I’ll stay here and guard the porch.”

“No, you have to go now. With me. We must get to Brookman’s before the milk goes bad!” I said. This suddenly sounded so much like a code phrase that I was afraid the soldier would cotton on, but he seemed to be a particularly obtuse soldier.

“I know,” said Zebediah. “Wilfred and I will guard the house.”

“You shut up!” Winifred and Wilfred yelled automatically.

Then Wilfred said, “Actually, that’s a good idea. Zebediah and I will guard the house.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” asked Winifred, but nobody paid her any attention.

“I have a whistle,” said Old Tom. “The children can blow it if they see any Japanese spies. How’s that?”

“Well…” said the soldier, crossing his legs in a way to which we were most sympathetic. We had all been there. It gave us new insight into all his pacing on the porch.

“Aw, go on,” said Old Tom to the soldier, giving him a little shove, which was meant to be friendly, I think, but which knocked the soldier down the stairs and perhaps precipitated an untimely event, if you know what I mean, because the soldier, without another word, went at a knock-kneed lope for the woods.

The rest of us together carried Flying Bob down the stairs and put him in the truck, only dropping him once.

He awoke enough to say, “Where am I?”

Sina said, “In a car accident, lovely, lovely car accident, one of the best, you’re enjoying it. Now go back to sleep.”

And he did in such a cooperative way that we became hopeful of our plan. To tell the truth, we were all charged up, running on adrenaline and rather enjoying it.

Then Gladys and Old Tom and I leapt into the truck and sped away toward Brookman’s with our fingers crossed that we could steal Mrs. Brookman’s car without anyone noticing.

There were already cars, the usual morning coffee klatch, pulled up in front of Brookman’s when we got there, so Old Tom drove the truck around to the back as quietly as he could and Gladys ran inside the back door to steal Mrs. Brookman’s key. She crept out, a natural felon, and waved at us to show us she had it, and then she and Old Tom and I transferred Flying Bob into Mrs. Brookman’s backseat, and away Gladys sped down our long country roads to the highway to find somewhere between Sooke and Comox to have the “car accident.”