So Sven was pretty frustrated most of the time and figured a Pen Pal or so would be just the solution. Then when he went out on tours, as he often did, he would know the right people in the right places.

Dino was a wonderful correspondent, and from his pictures just the very sort of a trim little dark-haired number that Sven found most appealing. To make it all the better, Dino had done some gym work too. For Sven talked mostly about his work, didn't know too much else, and a good many people found this pretty boring and would tell him so.

So he was really looking forward to the Pittsburgh trip. He found Dino to be about as cute a little trick as he had ever seen. After the sports exhibition he was to go by Dino's apartment for spaghetti. Never ate beforehand of

course.

The spaghetti was wonderful and so was the red wine that went with it. Evidently Dino was pretty popular, because he got a number of phone calls while they were eating, mostly along the lines, "Now don't rush things,' or else, "Take it easy you two, now listen to Dino." Must have been some of his friends having a quarrel and Dino straightening them out, Sven figured. Nice kid.

They were in the bedroom with their clothes off when there came a knock on the door. Dino slipped into a robe, went to see who it was, and the next thing you know there were these two big tough guys standing behind Dino, and Sven without any clothes on. "What's this all about?" he asked, puzzled.

"Don't get excited, Sven," Dino would say smoothly. "Just a couple of friends of mine who dropped by for a minute."

"We won't need more than a minute. one of them broke in. "We want your money, and we're going to get it. Every bit."

With all of his judo training Sven

wasn't afraid of them, but the trouble was all three of them seemed to know their judo too. It was quite a tangle for a few minutes there. Until they got Sven down and pounded the living daylights out of him.

Then, two of them held him tightly, while Dino went through Sven's clothes. They got four-hundred and twenty-nine dollars, plus some change and the beautiful wristwatch he had been awarded at the Western States meet in 1957.

His face was pretty bad. Nose probably broken. Blood coming out of one eye, and his left side sore as hell where they had kneed him. "Get dressed, and get the hell out of here," the dark one said. "And if anyone asks you what happened, some guys set on you when you passed by a dark alley. See? And when you get home have exactly one thousand smackers back here within two days, or we phone your boss and a few of those high schools. How would that be?"

"Don't try any funny business like talking to any cops or how you can have the money traced, or anything like that. Because we don't play nice at all with wise guys," said the one that was a real stinker. And he kicked him in the behind as Sven stumbled down the stairs, barely able to see.

Anyone like to have the address of a handsome blond Pen Pal? Or one with dark hair? Maybe you are a little bit relieved that this was all just a story, and that ONE has never given a subscriber's name to anyone, nor is it about to do so.

Maybe by this time you feel that it might even be better to be just a little frustrated, or even a little bit sick, if that's what a compulsion for Pen Pals means, on the principle that it's better to be sick than to be sorry.

Maybe you've decided by now that you need a Pen Pal about as much as you need a hole in the head. The two can add up to the same thing you know.

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