He sits all day in the alley between two saloons. I
have never noticed him sell any chestnuts. And come to think of it, I have
never seen more than a half-dozen chestnuts on his roasting pan. I begin
to suspect that this old man is a fraud and that his roasting chestnuts is
a blind. He is very likely a lookout for some bootlegger gang or criminal
mob. And I will keep an eye on him."
* * * * *
Mottka remained unaware of Policeman Billing's attention. He continued to
sit hunched over his roaster, nursing the little fire under it as best he
could--and waiting. But finally Policeman Billings called himself to his
attention in no uncertain way.
"What's your name?" asked the good officer, stopping before the chestnut
vender.
"Mottka," answered Mottka.
"And what are you doing here?" asked Policeman Billings, frowning.
"I roast chestnuts and sell them," said Mottka.
"Hm!" said Policeman Billings, "you do, eh? Well, we'll see about that.
Come along."
Mottka rose without question. One does not ask questions of an officer of
the law. Mottka stood up and put the fire out and put the handful of
chestnuts in his pocket and picked up his roaster and followed the
officer.
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