If I Were You by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

like the sound of diving planes.
    “Jerry, Jerry!” cried the girl. “Jerry, don’t die! You can’t die!”
    His eyes came open and he stared dazedly at her.
    “Jerry!” she whispered brokenly.
    He tried to struggle up and got into a sitting position, shaking his head to get the fog out of it.
    “Jerry, you were right about Schmidt. I did it . . . only God knows why! You were right, and you’ll hate me. But I’ll make it up, Jerry. Honest I’ll make it up!”
    He looked at her for a little while and then took her hand. A doc came, opening his bag, but Jerry Gordon stood up and pushed him back.
    “You think these cuts are anything, Doc? Hell, man, I’ve been sick for weeks and weeks, but this is all I needed!” And, limping, he let Betty help him from the arena.
    Mrs. Johnson was struggling to get through the people who surrounded Tommy. He could not hear what men were saying, anyhow. He didn’t need what they were saying.
    “I . . . I don’t know what to say!” said Mrs. Johnson.
    “Why say anything?” said Tommy impudently. He fished in his pockets for a handkerchief, but all he could find were letters and small books. Incuriously he hauled them out, and not until they fell from his hand and he had to pick them up did he know what they were.
    Suddenly a great light sizzled through him. He flicked open the first bankbook, on which was written “Hermann Schmidt.” He stared at the list of deposits, at the tens of thousands of dollars Schmidt had saved in three months out of a salary of a thousand dollars a month. And he stared at a love letter which began “My darling Hermann,” and ended “Your Betty.”
    “But I hardly know—” Mrs. Johnson was saying. “After all, it is a criminal offense to steal—and our profits have been missing. . . .” She dabbed at her eyes. “What . . . what am I going to do?”
    “Do?” said Tommy.
    And there came Schmidt, all unawed by the scenes which had gone before, having in tow two John Laws, men without imagination or a sense of the fitness of things.
    “There he is,” said Schmidt, pointing at Tommy. “He almost got away, but—” Then, seeing what Tommy had in his hands, Schmidt, always quick, snatched at them so swiftly that Tommy was forced to let go. “Now take him,” said Schmidt. “What he has done just now has no bearing on—”
    “Give me that book and that letter!” shrilled Tommy.
    Schmidt shoved him off and the two John Laws made a grab at him.
    “Give me that book,” cried Tommy, “or . . . or I’ll tear your heart out!”
    Schmidt was on the verge of laughing. But a sharp-toed little boot squarely in the shins turned the laughter into a yelp and a curse. Schmidt grabbed his injured limb and hopped for an instant. Again the John Laws made a snatch. But Tommy wasn’t in the space where their hands met.
    Tommy wasn’t there. He was up on Schmidt’s chest like a steeplejack, and he had two thumbs which stabbed into Schmidt’s eyes like hot pokers. Schmidt knocked him off.
    Tommy lit like a rubber ball, bellowing his battle cry, “Give me that book!” And again he was upon Schmidt.
    Perhaps he had learned something from the tigers, or perhaps Schmidt looked small compared to a lion. Anyway, small fists, correctly placed, and small boots stabbing sharp, and a small target which moves faster than the eye can follow will always be superior to slow and heavy brawn. The John Laws gaped in amazement and got in each other’s way.
    Unwittingly, Schmidt allowed himself to be backed by the attack up to the treacherous hoop which had already done its work. And, stumbling on its low rim, Schmidt tottered and went down. It was no accident that Tommy lit with both feet upon Schmidt’s solar plexus.
    Schmidt gave an agonized wheeze and tried to fend him off. But Tommy had learned well from the tigers. And though he might weigh but a few pounds and stand but a few inches high, the point to remember was never to give ground.
    And Schmidt, the