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. Thorby was about to get down, stick the gear back into the entranceway and get lost, when a hand grabbed his ankle.
"What are you doing!"
Thorby froze, then realized it was just the manager of the place, angry at finding his sign disturbed. Without looking down Thorby said, "What's wrong? You paid me to change this blinker."
"I did?"
"Why, sure, you did. You told me --" Thorby glanced down, looked amazed and blurted, "You're not the one."
"I certainly am not. Get down from there."
"I can't. You've got my ankle.
The man let go and stepped back as Thorby climbed down. "I don't know what silly idiot could have told you --" He broke off as Thorby's face came into light. "Hey, ifs that beggar boy!"
Thorby broke into a run as the man grabbed for him. He went ducking in and out between pedestrians as the shout of, "Patrol! Patrol! Police!" rose behind him. Then he was in the dark court again and, charged with adrenaline, was up a drainpipe as if it had been level pavement. He did not stop until he was several dozen roofs away.
He sat down against a chimney pot, caught his breath and tried to think.
Pop was dead. He couldn't be but he was. Old Poddy wouldn't have said so if he hadn't known. Why . . . why, Pop's head must be on a spike down at the pylon this minute, along with the other losers. Thorby had one grisly flash of visualization, and at last collapsed, wept uncontrollably
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