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did not explain to his pupil. One of them defied explanation. In was an acquired trait, something each man had to do on his own and in his own way; i.e., retaining a high degree of anonymity while remaining in circulation. You couldn't disguise yourself, naturally. It was more a matter of not doing anything. Of avoiding any mannerism, any expression, any tone or pattern of speech, any posture or gesture or walk-anything at all that might be remembered.
    Thus, the first unexplained essential.
    Presumably, Mintz didn't explain the second one because he saw no need to. It was something that Roy must certainly know.
    The lessons ended.
    Roy industriously went to work on the grift. He acquired a handsome wardrobe. He moved to a good hotel. Indulging himself extravagantly, he still built up a roll of more than four thousand dollars.
    Months passed. Then, one day, when he was eating in an Astoria-section lunchroom, a detective came in looking for him.
    Conferring with the proprietor, he described Roy to a t. He had no photo of him, but he did have a police artist's reconstruction, and it was an excellent likeness.
    Roy could see them looking down his way, as they talked, and he thought wildly of running. Of beating it back through the kitchen, and on out the back door. Probably the only thing that kept him from running was the weakness of his legs.
    And then he looked at himself in the back-counter mirror, and he breathed a shuddery sigh of relief.
    The day had turned warm after he left his hotel, and he'd checked his hat, coat and tie in a subway locker. Then, only an hour or so ago, he'd got a butchstyle haircut.
    So he was changed, considerably. Enough anyway to keep him from being collared. But he was shaken right down to his shoe soles. He sneaked back to his hotel room, wondering if he'd ever have the guts to work again. He stayed in the hotel until dark, and then he went looking for Mintz.
    Mintz was gone from the small hotel where he had lived. He'd left months ago, leaving no forwarding address. Roy started hunting for him. By sheer luck, he found him in a bar six blocks away.
    The grifter was horrified when Roy told him what had happened. "You mean you've been working here all this time? You've been working steady? My God! Do you know where I've been in the last six months? A dozen places! All the way to the coast and back!"
    "But why? I mean, New York's a big city. Why-"
    Mintz cut him off impatiently. New York wasn't a big city, he said. It just had a lot of people in it, and they were crammed into a relatively small area. And, no you didn't help your odds much by getting out of jampacked Manhattan and into the other boroughs. Not only did you keep bumping into the same people, people who worked in Manhattan and lived in Astoria, Jackson Heights, et cetera, but you were more conspicuous there. Easier to be spotted by the fools. "And, kid, a blind man could spot you. Look at that haircut! Look at the fancy wristwatch, and them three-tone sports shoes! Why don't you wear a black eyepatch, too, and a mouthful of gold teeth?"
    Roy reddened. He asked troubledly if every city was like this. Did you have to keep jumping from place to place, using up your capital and having to move on just about the time you got to know your way around?
    "What do you want?" Mintz shrugged. "Egg in your beer? You can usually play a fairly long stand in Los Angeles, because it ain't just one town. It's a county full of towns, dozens of 'em. And with traffic so bad and a lousy transportation system, the people don't mix around like they do in New York. But "-he wagged a finger severely-"but that still doesn't mean you can run wild, kid. You're a grifter, see? A thief. You've got no home and no friends, and no visible means of support. And you damned well better not ever forget it."
    "I won't," Roy promised. "But, Mintz…"
    "Yeah?"
    Roy smiled and shook his head, keeping his thought to himself. Suppose I did have a home, a regular place of