me. That's what
comes of trying to be a big public-spirited citizen. I decide my burglar,
whoever he is, is a lot nicer than the super, and I hope he got a fat
haul.

Next day it looks like maybe he did just that. The local paper, _Town and
Village_, has a headline: "Gramercy Park Cellar Robbed." I read down the
article:

"The superintendent, Fred Snood, checked the cellar storage cages, after a
passing youth hinted to him that there had been a robbery. He found one
cage open and a suitcase missing. Police theorize that the youth may have
been the burglar, or an accomplice with a guilty conscience or a grudge,
and they are hunting him for questioning. Mr. Snood described him as about
sixteen years of age, medium height, with a long 'ducktail' haircut, and
wearing a heavy black sweater. They are also checking second-hand stores
for the stolen suitcase."

The burglar stole a suitcase with valuable papers and some silver and
jewelry in it. But the guy they were hunting for--I read the paragraph over
and feel green. That's me. I get up and look in the mirror. In other
circumstances I'd like being taken for sixteen instead of fourteen, which
I am. I smooth my hair and squint at the back of it. The ducktail is fine.

Slowly I peel off my black sweater, which I wear practically all the time,
and stuff it in my bottom drawer, under my bathing suit. But if I want to
walk around the street without worrying about every cop, I'll have to do
more than that. I put on a shirt and necktie and suit jacket and stick a
cap on my head. I head uptown on the subway. At Sixty-eighth Street I get
off and find a barbershop.

"Butch cut," I tell the guy.

"That's right. I'll trim you nice and neat. Get rid of all this stuff."

And while he chatters on like an idiot, I have to watch three months' work
go snip, snip on the floor. Then I have to pay for it. At home I get the
same routine. Pop looks at my Ivy-League disguise and says, "Why, you may
look positively human some day!"

Two days later I find out I could've kept my hair. _Town and Village_ has
a new story: "Nab Cellar Thief Returning Loot. 'Just A Bet,' He Says."

The story is pretty interesting. The guy I met in the cellar is named Tom
Ransom, and he is nineteen and just sort of floating around in the city.
He doesn't seem to have any family. The police kept a detective watching
Number Forty-six, and pretty soon they see Tom walking along with the
stolen suitcase. He drops it i