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It must be lousy to be in this city without any family or friends.

At that point I get the idea I'll write him a letter.

After all, Cat and I sort of got him into the soup.

So I look up the name of the magistrate and spend about half an hour poring through the phone book, under "New York, City of," to get an address.

I wonder whether to address him as "Tom" or "Mr. Ransom." Finally I write:

Dear Tom Ransom:

I am the kid you met in the cellar at Number Forty-six Gramercy, and I certainly thank you for unlocking that cage and getting my cat out.

Cat is fine. I am sorry you got in trouble with the police.

It sounds to me like you were only trying to return the stuff and do right.

My father is a lawyer, if you would like one.

I guess he's pretty good. Or if you would like to write me anyway, here is my address: 150 East 22 St.

I read in the paper that your family don't live in New York, which is why I thought you might like someone to write to.

Yours sincerely,

Dave Mitchell

Now that I'm a free citizen again, I dig out my black sweater, look disgustedly at the butch haircut, and go out to mail my letter.

Later on I get into a stickball game again on Twenty-first Street.

Cat comes along and sits up high on a stoop across the street, where he can watch the ball game and the tame dogs being led by on their leashes.

That big brain, the super of Forty-six, is standing by the delivery entrance, looking sour as usual.

"Got any burglars in your basement these days?" I yell to him while I'm jogging around the bases on a long hit.

He looks at me and my short haircut and scratches his own bald egg.

"Where'd I see you?" he asks suspiciously.

"Oh—Cat and I, we get around," I say.