fess the constriction of their acquaintance. Socrates—so I am convinced, Steve—was a burglar who'd served about two terms when he got so good that Plato picked him up, covered his past and wrote him down. Possibly you noticed in the delicatessen the other day a friend of mine not lacking in muscular development"
"Oh, the dyke-keeper!" I said.
"What?"
I explained.
Jerry smiled; he knew my ways. "Any time you're overwhelmed with fear that logic languishes, Steve, start a little argument with him. Now imagine a little boy, like me in my white dress the day you picked me up, walking into hands like his for education."
"Oh, that's what you're getting to!"
"You've guessed it. Soon you're likely to meet my friend Keeban again—under circumstances which I confess I can't completely foresee; yet whatever they are, it can't be anything but a help to better understand his point of view.
"Now here we are or were, Steve—my brother and I. I walked into the bean busi-
