"Sure," nodded Jimmy Holden, willing to see what came next so long as it did not have anything to do with Paul Brennan. Moe trundled the car wheel down the street, steering it with practiced hands. A block down and a block around that corner, a man with a three-day growth of whiskers stopped a truck with a very dirty license plate. Moe stopped and the man jumped out of the truck long enough to heave the tire and wheel into the back. The man gave Moe a handful of change which Moe distributed among the little gang. Then he got in the truck beside the driver and waved for Jimmy to come along. "What's that for?" demanded the driver. "He's a smarty pants," said Moe. "A real good one." "Who're you?" "Jimmy--James." "What'cha do, kid?" "What?" "Moe, what did this kid sell you?" "You and your rusty jacks," grunted Moe. "Jimmy James here told us how to put a long hunk of pipe on the handle." "Jimmy James, who taught you about leverage?" demanded the driver suspiciously. Jimmy Holden believed that he was in the presence of an educated man. "Archimedes," he said solemnly, giving it the proper pronunciation. The driver said to Moe, "Think he's all right?" "He's smart enough." "Who're your parents, kid?" Jimmy Holden realized that this was a fine time to tell the truth, but properly diluted to taste. "My folks are dead," he said. "Who you staying with?" "No one." The driver of the truck eyed him cautiously for a moment. "You escaped from an orphan asylum?" "Uh-huh," lied Jimmy. "Where?" "Ain't saying." "Wise, huh?" "Don't want to get sent back," said Jimmy. "Got a flop?" "Flop?" "Place to sleep for the night." "No." "Where'd you sleep last night?" "Boxcar." "Bindlestiff, huh?" roared the man with laughter. "No, sir," said Jimmy. "I've no bindle." The man's roar of laughter stopped abruptly. "You're a pretty wise kid," he said thoughtfully. "I told y' so," said Moe. "Shut up," snapped the man. "Kid, do you want a flop for the night?" "Sure." "Okay. You're in." "What's your name?" asked Jimmy. "You call me Jake. Short for Jacob. Er--here's the place." The "Place" had no other name. It was a junkyard. In it were car parts, wrecks with parts undamaged, whole motors rusting in the air, axles, wheels, differential assemblies and transmissions from a thousand cars of a thousand different parentages. Hubcaps abounded in piles sorted to size and shape. Jake drove the little pickup truck into an open shed. The tire and wheel came from the back and went immediately into place on a complicated gadget. In a couple of minutes, the tire was off the wheel and the inner tube was out of the casing. Wheel, casing, and inner tube all went into three separate storage piles. Not only a junkyard, but a stripper's paradise. Bring a hot car in here and in a few hours no one could find it. Its separated parts would be sold piece by piece and week by week as second-hand replacements. Jake said, "Dollar-fifty." "Two," said Moe.