Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R. Brooks

think I was ever really in love with him. Oh, well, of course if Sanford was to come up here … But anyway you probably wouldn’t be willing to go up to Albany and get him.”
    â€œI wish you knew your own mind better,” Freddy said. “But anyway, yes—if you’ll wake this fellow up, and if I succeed in what I want to do, I’ll go up to Albany. But how I’m to find one mosquito in a city that size—”
    â€œI can tell you how to find him,” said Sybil.
    â€œAll right, then; do your stuff.”
    But the mosquito now wasn’t sure she could wake Penobsky up. “Most people that sleep as sound as he does,” she said, “they scratch the bites in their sleep. They don’t wake up at all.”
    â€œThen bite him where he can’t reach it,” said Freddy. “Look, his back isn’t under the covers. Bite him between the shoulder blades. He’ll have to wake up to reach that.”
    So Sybil flew over. But in a minute she was back. “He’s got on pajamas that are too thick. I can’t get through the cloth.”
    â€œThey’re some the sheriff lent him,” said Freddy. “Let’s see; how about his nose—just inside where it’s good and sensitive? That ought to do it.”
    â€œOh, fine!” said the mosquito. “And suppose he sneezes?”
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake,” said Freddy; “a fine patriot you are! If he sneezes he wakes up, doesn’t he? You want to do a fine patriotic act only you don’t want to risk anything. O.K., go on, fly out the window, beat it! A big help you are to your country!”
    â€œOh, shut up!” said Sybil crossly. “I’m going.” And with a shrill whine she rose from the pig’s nose and flew toward the other bed.
    There was silence for perhaps twenty seconds. Then Penobsky gave a terrific sneeze, following which he sat up in bed and began furiously scrubbing the end of his nose.
    â€œThere goes Sybil!” Freddy said to himself.
    He waited for a few minutes while the spy attended to his itching nose, then when Penobsky lay down again, and before he could get to sleep, Freddy got up. With fore-trotters outstretched and eyes shut he made for the tube. He took it from behind the picture, and muttering: “I must find a safer place for the plans—I must put them where the spies can never find them—oh dear, oh dear, where shall I hide them?” he went again through his sleep-walking routine, wandering about the room, while through slitted eyelids he watched the spy.
    And this time Penobsky got up. Evidently he knew how to deal with sleepwalkers. He got quietly out of bed and came close to Freddy, without touching him. “There, there,” he said soothingly, “I’ll take care of them for you. I’ll find a safe hiding place where the spies can’t get them. Just give them to me and go back to bed and to sleep.”
    So Freddy handed over the tube, and then he got back into bed and pulled the covers up about his ears. But he watched. Penobsky dressed hurriedly, and with one backward glance at his apparently sleeping roommate, went to the window, swung open the frame with the iron bars set in it, and dropped quietly to the ground. And then Freddy turned over and really went to sleep.

CHAPTER
    11
    In case he got the plans, Penobsky had made careful arrangements for his getaway some time before. Passing himself off as an artist named Smith, he had rented a house not far from the small farm where Freddy had taken refuge from the state trooper. The huge lawn sloped away gradually on all sides from the house, and there was a clear view for a hundred yards in all directions—not a tree or bush stood anywhere within the high iron fence that surrounded it. There were three other men living there—one of them was the big fierce man with curled-up eyebrows. One always stayed with the house while the