“What do you want, boy?”

He looked at the policeman and laughed.

“What in hell you laughing about?” the policeman asked.

He stopped laughing and stared. He was full of what he wanted to say, but he could not say it. He groped for words, but none came. One of the policemen walked over and reached out with his right hand and tugged at his sleeve.

“You want the Desk Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” he said; then quickly: “No, sir.”

“Well, make up your mind, now.”

Four policemen grouped themselves about him and stared hard into his eyes. He cleared his throat, smiled and said quietly:

“I’m looking for the men . . .”

“What men?”

Peculiarly, at that moment he could not remember the names of the three policemen. He saw the cave, the money on the walls, the gun, the cartridges, the cleaver, the diamonds, the watches, and the rings. . . . How could he say it? There was a vast distance between what he felt and these men.

“What men?” the policeman repeated.

“Those men who picked me up and brought me here,” he mumbled in a tone so low that the policemen leaned forward to hear him.

“What?”

“The men, mister. They brought me here.”

“When?”

His mind flew back over the blur of time lived in the underground blackness. When had he gone down? He had no notion whatever of how much time had elapsed. The intensity of what had occurred could not have happened, his feelings told him, within a short space; yet his mind told him that the time must have been short. Nervously, he rubbed his hands across his eyes. Then he knitted his brows and spoke like a child relating a dimly remembered dream.

“It was a long time ago. I ran away . . . They beat me . . . I was scared . . . And I saw a man stealing money . . .” Just as he was warming to his story, he saw a policeman raise a finger to his head and make a derisive circle.

“Nuts,” the policeman whispered.

“Do you know what this place is, boy?” one policeman asked. “Can’t you remember?”

“The police station,” he answered sturdily.

“Well, who do you want to see?”

“The men,” he said again, feeling that surely they knew the men. They were playing with him. “You know the men,” he said in a hurt tone.

“Where do you live?” one of the policemen asked.

He stared. What did that matter? It had been so long ago that he felt it was foolish even to try to remember. For an instant he forgot the policemen and the old mood that dominated his life underground surged back; he leaned forward and spoke eagerly.

“I signed the paper, then I run off. Now, I’m back . . .”

“Did you run off from an institution, boy?” one of the policemen asked.

He blinked, shaking his head.

“No, sir,” he said, smiling. “I come out from under the ground.” Then he added as though it were an afterthought: “I pushed off the manhole cover and climbed out . . .”