I never did figure out how the middle-aged, overweight man caught up with me in a foot chase. I mean, by the time the snowballs hammered against the side of his car, I was off and running.

I knew the neighborhood and all of the sneaky ways to duck out of sight. I was maybe 11 years old and at the top of Little League in stolen bases. Imagine my surprise when a meaty hand clamped down on my shoulder and pulled me to a stop in mid-flee.

“You’re coming with me,” the aging sprinter said. “And you’re telling me where the rest of your buddies are.”

The rest of my buddies were off safely in the woods, gloves still soaked from the snowballs that had pelted this guy’s car. Probably giggling like hell at my capture.

Not that I was admitting any of that to the man who nabbed me. I wasn’t admitting anything at all. Snowballs? Me? No, sir. Not a chance. I’ve been out here all day collecting canned goods for elderly shut-ins.

Ah, I was busted. Got a ride home, a stern lecture and more questions about my gang of friends. What gang of friends? I have no friends. I was alone when I fired roughly 18 snowballs at your car, sir.

You don’t give up your pals, ever. Every kid knows it by the time they’re 5 years old. A person who will turn over his or her buddies cannot be trusted in any aspect of life. It’s a rule that has never been written anywhere I know of but it’s understood by just about everyone.

Yet, there were always kids who’d crack and start naming names under the stern gaze of a parent or teacher or school cop.

Rats. Scoundrels.

To spare themselves one more moment of misery, they’d give up their friends, their friend’s friends and a few strangers just to sweeten the pot.

Some of those tattletales grow up to be criminals who will drop dime on a lifelong pal if it means a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Give up a few names, the cop might overlook that small infraction. Give up a bigger fish, the D.A. man might shave a few months off that sentence.

Stoolies. Snitches.

Honor among thieves is a diminishing trait. The days of dummying up out of loyalty and honor appear to be fading. Great for investigators who play one crook against the other. Great for prosecutors who can wrap up their cases in no time when birdies start singing.

Burglars, thieves, schemers and swindlers.

One day you’re an upstart criminal, the next, a confidential informant. A hen. A pigeon. Living a life of sweaty freedom by turning over people who, for one reason or another, have come to trust you.

The bigger the offense, the bigger the temptation to squeal. I’ve covered at least two murder trials where former friends were each charged in the killing. The entire defense at both trials was built on one defendant pointing the finger at the other. He delivered the fatal blow, your honor. It was that guy there who did it.

I’m told the problem of drug dealers rolling on each other is so prevalent in the local streets and court systems, organized dealers to the south had to come up with a new strategy.

Recently, they’ve begun sending up pairs of relatives to move drugs into cities such as Lewiston. Brother and brother, sister and sister. Uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces.

The logic is that a person is less likely to finger a blood relative if he gets pinched by police. We’ll see how that goes. The threat of a long prison stretch seems to rattle the steeliest of nerves and loosen the tightest of lips. What’s a pact between brothers when you’re looking at federal time?

Movies and literature are full of cons who do hard time instead of ratting out their friends – men and women, crooked in most ways, who value some criminal code of ethics more than their own freedom.

Realistically, I don’t know how many crooks are standing up these days and doing their time in spite of juicy offers put on the table.

Case in point: A local man not so long ago was facing some time for peddling drugs. Not a federal time, mind you. A shorter stay in a county jail or state lock-up.

But the offer was made and this small-timer sang like a canary. He turned over one name, then another. By the time he was done, he’d rattled off so many names, it was like handing over pieces to an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

That guy walks free now while more than two dozen of his criminal cohorts sit in dingy cells awaiting sentencing. It’s freedom, sure. But it’s got to be a prison in itself spending each day with guilt, paranoia and the real-world threat of revenge lurking in every shadow.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.