"Why, sure you can," said the policeman. "All you have to do is to bring
your parents in."
"But I want the money," wailed Jimmy.
"Jimmy James," explained the policeman with a slight frown to the teller,
"we can't cash a check without positive identification. Do you know what
positive identification means?"
"Yes sir. It means that you've got to be sure that this is me."
"Right! Now, those are the rules. Now, of course, you don't look like
the sort of young man who would tell a lie. I'll even bet your real
name is Jimmy James, Jr. But you see, we have no proof, and our boss
will be awful mad at us if we break the rules and cash this check without
following the rules. The rules, Jimmy James, aren't to delay nice, honest
people, but to stop people from making mistakes. Mistakes such as taking
a little letter out of their father's mailbox. If we cashed that check,
then it couldn't be put back in father's mailbox without anybody knowing
about it. And that would be real bad."
"But it's mine!"
"Sonny, if that's yours, all you have to do is to have your folks come in
and say so. Then we'll open an account for you."
"Yes sir," said Jimmy in a voice that was thick with tears of frustration
close to the surface. He turned away and left.
Jake was still in the outside office of the Yard when Jimmy returned. The
boy was crestfallen, frustrated, unhappy, and would not have returned at
all if there had been another place where he was welcome. He expected
ridicule from Jake, but Jake smiled.
"No luck, kid?"
Jimmy just shook his head.
"Checks are tough, Jimmy. Give up, now?"
"No!"
"No? What then?"
"I can write a letter and sign it," said Jimmy, explaining how he had
outfoxed the ticket seller.
"Won't work with checks, Jimmy. For me now, if I was to be polite and
dressed right they might cash a twenty if I showed up with my social
security card, driver's license, identification card with photograph
sealed in, and all that junk. But a kid hasn't got a chance. Look, Jimmy,
I'm sorry for this morning. To-morrow morning we'll go over to my bank
and I'll have them cash it for you. It's yours. You earned it and you
keep it. Okay? Are we friends again?"
"Yes sir."
Gravely they shook hands. "Watch the place, kid," said Jake. "I got to
make a phone call."
In the morning, Jake dressed for business and insisted that Jimmy put on
his best to make a good impression. After breakfast, they set out. Jake
parked in front of a granite building.
"This isn't any bank," objected Jimmy. "This is a police station."
"Sure," responded Jake. "Here's where we get you an identification card.
Don't you know?"
"Okay," said Jimmy dubiously.
Inside the station there were a number of men in uniform and in plain
clothing. Jake strode forward, holding Jimmy by one small hand. They
approached the sergeant's desk and Jake lifted Jimmy up and seated him on
one edge of the desk with his feet dangling.
The sergeant looked at them with interest but without surprise.
"Sergeant," said Jake, "this is Jimmy James--as he calls himself when
he's writing stories. Otherwise he is James Quincy Holden."
Jimmy went cold all over.
Jake backed through the circle that was closing in; the hole he made was
filled by Paul Brennan.
It was not the first betrayal in Jimmy James's young life, but it was
totally unexpected. He didn't know that the policeman from the bank had
worried Jake; he didn't know that Jake had known all along who he was; he
didn't know how fast Brennan had moved after the phone call from Jake.
But his young mind leaped past the unknown facts to reach a certain, and
correct, conclusion.
He had been sold out.
"Jimmy, Jimmy," came the old, pleading voice. "Why did you run away?
Where have you been?"
Brennan stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Without
a shadow of doubt," he said formally, "this is James Quincy Holden. I so
identify him. And with no more ado, I hand you the reward." He reached
into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope, handing it to Jake. "I
have never parted with one thousand dollars so happily in my life."
Jimmy watched, unable to move. Brennan was busy and cheerful, the model
of the man whose long-lost ward has been returned to him.
"So, James, shall we go quietly or shall we have a scene?"
Trapped and sullen, Jimmy Holden said nothing. The officers helped him
down from the desk. He did not move. Brennan took him by a hand that was
as limp as wet cloth. Brennan started for the door. The arm lifted until
the link was taut; then, with slow, dragging steps, James Quincy Holden
started toward home.