nside the delivery entrance and walks on,
but the cop collars him. I suppose if it hadn't been for me shooting my
big mouth off to the super, the police wouldn't have been watching the
neighborhood. I feel sort of responsible.

The story in the paper goes on to say this guy was broke and hunting for a
job, and some other guy dares him to snatch something out of a cellar and
finally bets him ten dollars, so he does it. He gets out and finds the
suitcase has a lot of stocks and legal papers and table silver in it, and
he's scared stiff. So he figures to drop it back where it came from. The
paper says he's held over to appear before some magistrate in Adolescent
Court.

I wonder, would they send a guy to jail for that? Or if they turn him
loose, what does he do? It must be lousy to be in this city without any
family or friends.

At that point I get the idea I'll write him a letter. After all, Cat and I
sort of got him into the soup. So I look up the name of the magistrate and
spend about half an hour poring through the phone book, under "New York,
City of," to get an address. I wonder whether to address him as "Tom" or
"Mr. Ransom." Finally I write:

_Dear Tom Ransom:_

_I am the kid you met in the cellar at Number Forty-six Gramercy, and I
certainly thank you for unlocking that cage and getting my cat out. Cat is
fine. I am sorry you got in trouble with the police. It sounds to me like
you were only trying to return the stuff and do right. My father is a
lawyer, if you would like one. I guess he's pretty good. Or if you would
like to write me anyway, here is my address: 150 East 22 St. I read in the
paper that your family don't live in New York, which is why I thought you
might like someone to write to._

_Yours sincerely,_
_Dave Mitchell_

Now that I'm a free citizen again, I dig out my black sweater, look
disgustedly at the butch haircut, and go out to mail my letter.

Later on I get into a stickball game again on Twenty-first Street. Cat
comes along and sits up high on a stoop across the street, where he can
watch the ball game and the tame dogs being led by on their leashes. That
big brain, the super of Forty-six, is standing by the delivery entrance,
looking sour as usual.

"Got any burglars in your basement these days?" I yell to him while I'm
jogging around the bases on a long hit.

He lo