100%: The Story of a Patriot | Page 4

Street? Or could it have been a
gas-main? And was this the end, or would it explode some more?
Would the volcano go on erupting, and blow Peter and his frail
packing-box thru the walls of Guggenheim's Department-store?
So Peter waited, and listened to the horrible sounds of people in agony,
and pleading with others to put them out of it. Peter heard voices of
men giving orders, and realized that these must be policemen, and that
no doubt there would be ambulances coming. Maybe there was
something the matter with him, and he ought to crawl out and get
himself taken care of. All of a sudden Peter remembered his stomach;
and his wits, which had been sharpened by twenty years' struggle
against a hostile world, realized in a flash the opportunity which fate
had brought to him. He must pretend to be wounded, badly wounded;
he must be unconscious, suffering from shock and shattered nerves;
then they would take him to the hospital and put him in a soft bed and
give him things to eat--maybe he might stay there for weeks, and they
might give him money when he came out.
Or perhaps he might get a job in the hospital, something that was easy,
and required only alert intelligence. Perhaps the head doctor in the
hospital might want somebody to watch the other doctors, to see if they
were neglecting the patients, or perhaps flirting with some of the
nurses--there was sure to be something like that going on. It had been

that way in the orphans' home where Peter had spent a part of his
childhood till he ran away. It had been that way again in the great
Temple of Jimjambo, conducted by Pashtian el Kalandra, Chief
Magistrian of Eleutherinian Exoticism. Peter had worked as scullion in
the kitchen in that mystic institution, and had worked his way upward
until he possessed the confidence of Tushbar Akrogas, major-domo and
right hand man of the Prophet himself.
Wherever there was a group of people, and a treasure to be
administered, there Peter knew was backbiting and scandal and
intriguing and spying, and a chance for somebody whose brains were
"all there." It might seem strange that Peter should think about such
things, just then when the earth had opened up in front of him and the
air had turned to roaring noise and blinding white flame, and had
hurled him against the side of a building and dropped the bleeding half
of a woman's body across his chest; but Peter had lived from earliest
childhood by his wits and by nothing else, and such a fellow has to
learn to use his wits under any and all circumstances, no matter how
bewildering. Peter's training covered almost every emergency one
could think of; he had even at times occupied himself by imagining
what he would do if the Holy Rollers should turn out to be right, and if
suddenly Gabriel's trumpet were to blow, and be were to find himself
confronting Jesus in a long white night-gown.

Section 3

Peter's imaginings were brought to an end by the packing-box being
pulled out from the wall. "Hello!" said a voice.
Peter groaned, but did not look up. The box was pulled out further, and
a face peered in. "What you hidin' in there for?"
Peter stammered feebly: "Wh-wh-what?"
"You hurt?" demanded the voice.

"I dunno," moaned Peter.
The box was pulled out further, and its occupant slid out. Peter looked
up, and saw three or four policemen bending over him; he moaned
again.
"How did you get in there?" asked one.
"I crawled in."
"What for?"
"To g-g-get away from the--what was it?"
"Bomb," said one of the policemen; and Peter was astounded that for a
moment he forgot to be a nervous wreck.
"Bomb!" he cried; and at the same moment one of the policemen lifted
him to his feet.
"Can you stand up?" he demanded; and Peter tried, and found that he
could, and forgot that he couldn't. He was covered with blood and dirt,
and was an unpresentable object, but he was really relieved to discover
that his limbs were intact.
"What's your name?" demanded one of the policemen, and when Peter
answered, he asked, "Where do you work?"
"I got no job," replied Peter.
"Where'd you work last?" And then another broke in, "What did you
crawl in there for?"
"My God!" cried Peter. "I wanted to get away!"
The policemen seemed to find it suspicious that he had stayed hidden
so long. They were in a state of excitement themselves, it appeared; a
terrible crime had been committed, and they were hunting for any trace
of the criminal. Another man came up, not dressed in uniform, but

evidently having authority, and he fell