_For those of you who may be sentimentalists about what you'd do if you could live your life over again, here is the real lowdown about that...._ SECOND CHANCE By ROBERT HOSKINS Illustrated by SUMMERS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories April 1962 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The boy was twelve, and running for dear life. Behind him came the sounds of half a dozen pursuers, the faintly sticky slap of leather soles coming down on summer-hot blacktopping and the sharp explosions of breath let out and sucked back in quickly as out-of-condition bodies forced muscles angrily beyond normal limits of endurance. "There goes the little bastard now!" "Don't let him get away!" A scant hundred yards separated pursued from pursuers. The boy stopped at the mouth of an alley, panic stealing logic as he glanced over his shoulders at the boys coming up quickly behind him. He darted into the alley, rounded a curve, and realized too late that he was in a dead-end. Boxes and trash were piled against the wall; a fire-escape beckoned invitingly just above. He scrabbled up the side of the pile, then realized his mistake as it began to shift beneath him. He leaped for the fire-escape ladder, his fingers brushing the lowest rung just as the pile collapsed, carrying him down and burying him. "Where the hell is he?" Hands started pulling at the pile, tearing away debris. The boy bit down on his lip, and closed his eyes against the inevitable. "Hey, here he is!" They grabbed him and pulled him out. A palm slapped across his cheek, forcing his eyes open. "Okay, you little sneak. What's the big idea? Why'd you rat to the Principal?" He shook his head. "Come on, dammit! Talk! You were talking enough yesterday!" "Ah, you're wasting your breath. Come on, let's do what we came to do and get it over with." "Okay, if that's the way you want it." * * * * * Johnson winced, as the first of the blows fell. The picture on the screen seemed far away, but the memory of physical pain was suddenly freshened. As hands and feet lashed out, repeatedly, raining down a storm of punishment on the quivering mass of flesh in the center of the picture, once-tortured nerves twinged in sympathy. "Brutal little monsters, aren't they?" said Cavendish. "I got back at them," said Johnson. "Every last one of them. I was the last kid they beat up." "Mmmm. Still, that didn't change the fact that you had already received a nasty beating yourself. No matter how sweet revenge, wouldn't it have been sweeter to have avoided the beating altogether?"