CoverCover
[62]
THE SCAPEGOAT
By RICHARD MAPLES
Who would not have pity fora poor, helpless victim? Nobody—except another poor victim!
Illustrated by WEISS
THE OLD GUY didn't havea chance. All he could dowas shield his head withlimp arms and moan, while thisother fellow—a young, huskysix-footer—gave him a vicious,cold-blooded beating.
"Hey, there!" I yelled indignantly."Cut it out!"
But the kid kept belting away,as if he were methodically workingout on a fifty-pound trainingbag. Finally, the old man saggedto the pavement. Then this hoodlumbegan to kick him.
I'm not a hero. I'm a newspaperman whose job it is to lookat things objectively. But I knowright from wrong.
My one punch caught theyoung bruiser back of the earand spilled him on the ground.He lay there for a moment, thenrolled over. Even by the streetlight, it was easy to see his eyeswere glassy.[63]
It gave me lots of satisfaction.I'm not a big man—just compact—butI take care of myself.I don't drink or smoke and Iexercise regularly. The result isI can handle myself in theclinches.
The kid sat up and pushedhimself unsteadily to his feet. Icould see now that he was a collegeboy. The red sweater withthe terrycloth border and thewhite pants with a shortenedleft leg were a dead giveaway.
"Listen here," I said roughly,"you nuts? Beating up an oldman!"
He appeared to be desperatelysearching for an explanation—somethingto say. Then, abruptly,without having uttered a sound,he reeled away and shambledhurriedly down the street.
My first inclination was togive chase. But the old mangroaned and I turned to helphim. That was when I had it—avirtual brain storm.
This whole episode, I couldsee, was a perfect answer to thedamnable criticisms leveled atmy series on juvenile delinquency.More than that, it wasan absolute vindication!
BARELY AN hour ago, I'd hadto sit at a meeting and takeit on the chin from twenty ofthe town's leading lights whodesignated themselves The Committeefor the Protection ofYouth. The outfit was, of course,politically inspired. It had obviouslybeen started by the Mayorand his gang as a means of torpedoingJones, the publisher ofmy paper. Jones, you see, hadbecome politically ambitious himself.
Since I was the star on Jones'team, they piled on me. Some ofthe nicer things said about myarticles were that they constitutedfilthy muckraking, were apattern of irresponsible lies, andwere designed principally tosmear the incumbent politicos.The children of the town, theycried, were being sacrificed toruthless ambition.
It wouldn't have been so badif Jones had stuck by me. But hecut and ran. Discretion, he hadwhispered to me from behind apudgy hand, was the better partof valor. Then he told them hewould discontinue the articles.
Now I had first-hand proof ofa particularly brutal bit of delinquency.A cruel assault on a poor,helpless old man! Furthermore,I was the hero of the incident!
Bending down to see how seriouslythe old man had been hurt,I asked, "What happened, Pop?Was he trying to rob you orsomething?" He didn't answer.[64]
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