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Oh, oh! -- two patrolmen moving up the alley . . . he had been wrong, wrong! They hadn't dropped the matter, they had sent out the alarm. He pulled back and looked around. The laundry? No. The outbuilding? The patrol would check it. Nothing but to run for it -- right into the arms of another patrol. Thorby knew how fast the police could put a cordon around a district. Near the Plaza he could go through their nets, but here he was in strange terrain.
His eye lit on a worn-out washtub . . . then he was under it. It was a tight fit, with knees to his chin and splinters in his spine. He was afraid that his clout was sticking out but it was too late to correct it; he heard someone coming.
Footsteps came toward the tub and he stopped breathing. Someone stepped on the tub and stood on it
"Hi there, mother!" It was a man's voice. "You been out here long?"
"Long enough. Mind that pole, you'll knock the clothes down."
"See anything of a boy?"
"What boy?"
"Youngster, getting man-tall. Fuzz on his chin. Breech clout, no sandals."
"Somebody," the woman's voice above him answered indifferently, "came running through here like his ghost was after him. I didn't really see him -- I was trying to get this pesky line up."
"That's our baby! Where'd he go?"
"Over that fence and between those houses."
"Thanks, mother! Come on, Juby."
Thorby waited
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