When I was a child a little fellow owned a junk yard. The little fellow was a mouse, not Mickey, another little guy. And no Minnie in the picture. Just a little bachelor mouse working his junk yard.

Little Guy lived on the premises, a shack in the corner of the junk yard. Windows were half covered with cardboard, exterior walls scarred by weather, no paint, roof patched with this and that, hell-of-a-looking shack.

Big Cat was always snooping around. Cat was the Tax Collector. Cat suspected Little Guy was making more money than he reported and peered over the fence, through holes in the fence, knocked on the shack door in the middle of the night trying to catch Little Guy with evidence of prosperity.

Finally Big Cat got entrance to shack Little Guy lived in. Cat was surprised because inside was like the outside, a mess, complete chaos. Busted furniture, dirty dishes in the sink, toilet plugged, floor unswept, cockroaches scurrying across the floor escaping Big Cat's large paws.

No evidence of prosperity. But Little Guy had a secret. His real home was in a hidden basement, space which could not be detected from above, by any means. Little Guy entered this space via a trap door in the floor of the beaten-down shack.

In the basement a plush life style was evident. Modern furniture, the latest appliances, luxury carpeting, fine linen on the bed Little Guy slept in. And a bank-size vault where sparkling gold and green cash was laid out in perfect order.

Little Guy was really somebody; hid his real identity. Advertising his status was the last thing he wanted to do.





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