"Get back here!"
The young boy had halted for a moment at the street corner, thinking he had lost his pursuer, but when he heard the raucous shout he took off running again. Gasping for breath and unable to check his momentum, he slammed into a blue uniform and fell backward. A hand reached down to scoop him up. Realizing that the hand belonged to a cop, the boy struggled in a feeble attempt to get away, but he was held fast.
"What are you running from, boy? Speak up!"
The storekeeper who had been pursuing the boy puffed up to where they stood, stopped before them, and gazed down at his quarry, his face bilious with rage. "I can answer that. He's been livin' in my back room now for 'bout a year; I give him some food and a place to sleep in return for a bit of work. But he ain't brought me nothin' but trouble, little wretch! He's bin stealin' from me ever since I laid eyes on him, and this time I caught him red-handed."
The boy mumbled something inaudible, and the cop shook the skinny arm he was holding.
"Speak up, boy!"
The boy suddenly lifted his head, revealing a wide face with delicate features and enormous blue eyes that blazed with anger. "'He's a liar! He don't give me no food, else I wouldn't a stole from him!"
"You're calling this man a liar, boy?"
The boy paused, eyes turned upward to the cop's well-fed face. Then he said firmly, "Yeah."
"It's a lie, sir! I treated him as if he was my own, an' he's been repayin' me by stealin' the very shirt off my back!"
"I ain't stole no shirts!" the boy said mutinously, glaring at the shopkeeper with pure hatred glowing from his face. "Just what he owed me for the work I done!"
"What's his name and age?" asked the cop.
"His name's Alexander Conlon. I don't know his age; don't think he knows it hisself. He just showed up on my doorstep and I took him in. He was in a bad way; mighta starved if I hadn't done somethin'," the shopkeeper said self-importantly. "I should say he's about twelve, officer, though he's so small. Are you gonna punish him, officer?"
The boy began to struggle again. "I ain't done nothin'!" he said loudly.
The cop, however, was not interested in the truth of the manner. He been through this scenario many times, and had found that it usually paid to side with the one who had the power. Which was clearly not the waifling he held tightly in his meaty hand. "Shuttup, lad." He turned to the shopkeeper. "You want this boy dealt with, man?"
"Yessir, anything to see that he's taken off my hands and gets his just punishment."
"You'll testify if need be?"
The man nodded eagerly.
"Awright then. Come along, lad."
The cop gripped the boy firmly by the back of the neck and strolled off down the street. Warden Snyder always liked fresh fodder; the more bodies in the Refuge, the more money in the pockets of all concerned. The cop did not allow his conscience to bother him on these little matters. It was, after all, no concern of his,
"Hurry up, boy. Don't lag."
