posed to be playin' checkers-not Post Office. Remember? Whassamatter with you anyhow? You nuts or somethin'?"

As though he had not heard, the man continued to struggle with Tomsy He could easily have knocked the boy out, if he had wanted to. But he did not play such a simple game-he liked them fighting.

A feeling of alarm took possession of Tomsy now, at the urgency of the look directed at him—at the lips tightly pressed together the nostrils widened, the taut fingers strengthening their grip on his arms, his legs.

It seemed to Tomsy the man wanted to pin him down-yet how could he be fighting when, each time his mouth came within range, he kissed Tomsy's blond head, ran exploring fingers over his body, pulled expertly at the fastenings of his clothing?

The man once muttered, "Played it dumb," as they scuffled about in the mock-battle that was becoming real for Tomsy.

And suddenly the boy thought, "Played it dumb!" Then it was a gag. Then Butch knew all about it! Then it was never meant to be checkers at all! That bastard Butch crossed me up! Just wait till I get ahold of that dirty . . .

Now Tomsy's injured feelings really boiled over. He didn't mean to punch the man in the nose-well, not that hard, anyway. Because he knew, from the way the "fight" was going, that he could easily be outmaneuvered. But he felt his fist flatten the man's broad nose, and he sprang from the bed shouting, in tears of shame, "You-you-bitch.'

Before the man could decide whether he was worth pursuing, Tomsy had swung the chain loose and unlocked the door, and he did not stop running until he reached the path that led back to the tunnel again.

The park was much darker now, and so were Tomsy's gray eyes. His face seemed to swim, pale and grimy, in the murky air. His mouth wore the grimace of angry tears as he darted among the leafless bushes, searching for the cat. Anger still flared in him, and he had not done with tears.

Where's that lousy cat? I'll murder the little son-of-a-bitch when I get hold of him. Just let me lay hands on him!"

The cat was crouching under the one shrub that still had a few leaves. He turned his head hopefully toward Tomsy. The boy leaped over the low railing and took an angry slide down the hill.

But when he was sprawled on his stomach under the scrawny bush, somehow he wasn't angry any more. He lifted the cat gently from among the thorny twigs and lay it on its side, pressing his streaked face down into its bony ribs.

Squeezing his eyes tightly together he whimpered, "That lousy Butch!" and let his tears run down the cat's stringy fur, as his body heaved with grief, and the dampness of the ground penetrated his slackes and sweater unnoticed.

Suddenly Tomsy's grief was spent, and he sat up, taking the cat's soft face between his hands, and looking straight into the back-drawing depths of the cat's steady eyes.

"You old cat, you," he whispered, banteringly. "Why didn't you tell me it'd be like that, huh? Were you fooling me, too? Musta been just fooling'cause I know you wouldn't double-cross me on purpose.

"You know what? I bet I could even call a cop and get that guy arrested!" Tomsy felt the swelling of importance that goes with being on the right side of the law. But he knew he had no words that would describe to a policeman—

23