"Sure," responded Jake. "Here's where we get you an identification card. Don't you know?" "Okay," said Jimmy dubiously. Inside the station there were a number of men in uniform and in plain clothing. Jake strode forward, holding Jimmy by one small hand. They approached the sergeant's desk and Jake lifted Jimmy up and seated him on one edge of the desk with his feet dangling. The sergeant looked at them with interest but without surprise. "Sergeant," said Jake, "this is Jimmy James--as he calls himself when he's writing stories. Otherwise he is James Quincy Holden." Jimmy went cold all over. Jake backed through the circle that was closing in; the hole he made was filled by Paul Brennan. It was not the first betrayal in Jimmy James's young life, but it was totally unexpected. He didn't know that the policeman from the bank had worried Jake; he didn't know that Jake had known all along who he was; he didn't know how fast Brennan had moved after the phone call from Jake. But his young mind leaped past the unknown facts to reach a certain, and correct, conclusion. He had been sold out. "Jimmy, Jimmy," came the old, pleading voice. "Why did you run away? Where have you been?" Brennan stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Without a shadow of doubt," he said formally, "this is James Quincy Holden. I so identify him. And with no more ado, I hand you the reward." He reached into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope, handing it to Jake. "I have never parted with one thousand dollars so happily in my life." Jimmy watched, unable to move. Brennan was busy and cheerful, the model of the man whose long-lost ward has been returned to him. "So, James, shall we go quietly or shall we have a scene?" Trapped and sullen, Jimmy Holden said nothing. The officers helped him down from the desk. He did not move. Brennan took him by a hand that was as limp as wet cloth. Brennan started for the door. The arm lifted until the link was taut; then, with slow, dragging steps, James Quincy Holden started toward home. Brennan said, "You understand me, don't you, Jimmy?" "You want my father's machine." "Only to help you, Jimmy. Can't you believe that?" "No." Brennan drove his car with ease. A soft smile lurked around his lips. He went on, "You know what your father's machine will do for you, don't you, Jimmy?" "Yes." "But have you ever attended school?" "No." But Jimmy remembered the long hours and hours of study and practice before he became proficient with his typewriter. For a moment he felt close to tears. It had been the only possession he truly owned, now it was gone. And with it was gone the author's first check. The thrill of that first check is far greater than Graduation or the First Job. It is approximately equal to the flush of pride that comes when the author's story hits print with his NAME appended.