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 he 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?”  

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