Case of the Young Incorrigible

Doing for the day, to her. Yes? Yes? Could I talk to the police, please? Well, uh... You're Mrs. Roth, aren't you? Yes, Mrs. Roth, did you? No, no, no, no. It's been a long time. You still got the store?

Oh, there. Sure, I got it. When Joe died, I thought maybe I'd sell it, but I couldn't get nothing for the store like that. I got the store. How much the five cents can be ten cents so does mean and no spaces.

Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Rotten? It's my boy, George. You remember my boy, George? Yes. He got arrested. Well, yeah. Upstairs with the tickets. What's wrong? Yeah, yes. I'm about to turn out. Do you want to talk to him?

Yes, I'll be right there. Oh, you should drive down here, Mrs. Rotten. I'll be back. You're still cutting, too. I walked out into the mud room and stood behind the desk. The bell rang in March for platoon for the day to her.

The tolls are in front of them to a halt. He reported a platoon infected. The desk officer ordered the road. Sergeant, yes. Brefting, and roads. Gah. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping.

I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. on from the Harlem Valley State Hospital, an escaped metal case. His name is Lester C. Trey, age 58, five feet, ten and a half inches, 165 pounds. Gray hair, blue eyes, light complexion, medium build, and he walks with a slight limp in his right leg.

And he said his fellow used to hang out with bar and grills on second Avenue in the 70s before he was confined. You second men and you men on post-air keep your eyes out for him. Now, I don't like to talk about this. I'm not going to mention any names because I don't want to embarrass anybody. But get your house tax paid up. Those