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.