Ispent my early youth in a working-class district of San Francisco in the 1940s. One of the neighborhood kids—we can call him Jimmy Harrigan—was the son of a dockworker. Jimmy was more adventurous than the rest of us always dreaming up some sort of minor mischief, and brilliantly—to our way of thinking—worming his way out of responsibility if caught. It so happened that after one of his misadventures, a police officer delivered Jimmy home to the expected righteous wrath of his parents. In those days and in that neighborhood we tried mightily to avoid being taken home by the police; the consequences could be painful.
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