But Swiggey was in no danger. With a look of scorn that was meant to annihilate him altogether, the young forger folded up the check and put it into his own pocket. Then he picked up his hand-bills and walked leisurely out of the alley, whistling as he went. Swiggey waited until he had turned the corner, then stuffed his last cigarette stub into his blouse and trotted after him. Once more on the street, the boy again began to distribute the bills, this time, very honorably, one to a doorway. In this way, he worked his way for two blocks, until he stood before a grocery. He lifted up a basket of potatoes; with a sudden quick movement of his foot, he kicked off another basket, threw his handbills into it, and replaced the basket of potatoes. A man passing by smiled at the small cheat, and the boy smiled back, the guileless smile of childhood. Then he went into the store. There was a crowd inside and no one paid any attention to him. But the Fabian policy had long been his. He inspected the apples, the various kinds of jawbreakers, also the cigarettes, with interest. Presently a clerk came up to him. He held out the check. “I want to pay Peter Googan’s bill.” The clerk eyed him sharply. He smiled his frank smile. “How much is Peter Googan’s bill?” he asked. “How much did he tell you?” said the clerk, inspecting the check. “He said you’d know,” said the boy. The clerk consulted the books, then handed the boy forty dollars. The boy received the money and turned to confront Swiggey. Swiggey’s face wore a grin, and Swiggey’s hand was out. A boy or a dog always knows his friend. The boy knew that his eyes looked into the eyes of an enemy, and a cunning one. “If you snitch, I’ll kill you,” he said. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll kill you dead.” It was a threat for the waste places, but not for a crowded store. Swiggey’s hand shut tight on the forger’s blouse. “Dibs,” he said. The other boy twisted his hand loose and brushed past him. “He stole it,” Swiggey shrieked. “I seen him put the writing on it: I seen him. Up Mack’s alley, by the pool-room. I seen him do it.” But the accused was gone. A survey of the street revealed no scurrying boy. An hour later a policeman walked down to the front row of a movie house and touched a boy on the shoulder. Bill Hart was just leaping the chasm on his sported pinto. The boy did not move. The policeman took hold of his arm and shook him. He looked up. “I ain’t done nothing.” Then, behind the burly form he saw the grinning face of Swiggey. “I’ll kill you, you dirty little snitcher,” he said. And the sleepy afternoon audience was given a mild diversion, not noted on the programme, as two small boys and a policeman climbed the aisle. Outside Swiggey watched the two go up the street toward the courthouse. As they disappeared, from the pocket of his blouse he drew a handfull of stubs, selected the longest, and lit it. And now, he too, become a culprit, became suddenly fugitive and dived into an alley.