It was after a number of days on the beat that Policeman Billings began to take Mottka seriously. There was something curious about the chestnut vender, and the eye of the good officer grew narrow with suspicion. "This man," reasoned Policeman Billings, "makes pretense of being a vender of roasted chestnuts. 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. A half-hour later Mottka stood before the sergeant in the Twenty-second street station. "What's the trouble?" asked the sergeant. And Policeman Billings explained. "He claims to be selling chestnuts and roasting them. But I never see him sell any, much less do I see him roasting any. He's got about a dozen chestnuts altogether and I think he may bear looking into." "What about it, Mottka?" asked the sergeant. Mottka shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and smiled deprecatingly. "Nothing," he said, "I got a chestnut roaster I got from a friend on the West Side. And I try to make business. I got a license." "But the officer says you never roast any chestnuts and he thinks you're a fake." "Yes, yes," smiled Mottka; "I don't have so many chestnuts. I can't afford only a little bit at a time. Some time I buy a basket of chestnuts." "Where do you live, Mottka?" "Oh, on the West Side. On the West Side." "And what did you do before you roasted chestnuts?" "Me? Oh, I was in a business. Yes, in a business. And it failed. So I got the chestnut roaster. I got a license." "It seems to me I've seen you before, Mottka." "Yes, yes. A policeman bring me here before when I was on Wabash Avenue with my chestnuts." "What did he bring you in for?" "Oh, because he thinks I am a crook, because I don't have enough chestnuts to sell. He says I am a lookout for crooks and he brings me in." Mottka laughed softly and shrugged his shoulders.