“You get no ticket here,” he said. By this time other clerks had got behind him and were looking at me. “Don’t ever come here to trade. We don’t take your business. Understand?” There was no sense in getting mad or trying to argue, so I went back to the hotel, paid my bill and took the first train back to New York. It was tough. I wanted to take back some real money and that Teller wouldn’t let me make even one trade. I got back to New York, paid Fullerton his five hundred, and started trading again with the St. Louis money. I had good and bad spells, but I was doing better than breaking even. After all, I didn’t have much to unlearn; only to grasp the one fact that there was more to the game of stock speculation than I had considered before I went to Fullerton’s office to trade. I was like one of those puzzle fans, doing the crossword puzzles in the Sunday supplement. He isn’t satisfied until he gets it. Well, I certainly wanted to find the solution to my puzzle. I thought I was done with trading in bucket shops. But I was mistaken. About a couple of months after I got back to New York an old jigger came into Fullerton’s office. He knew A.R. Somebody said they’d once owned a string of race horses together. It was plain he’d seen better days. I was introduced to old McDevitt. He was telling the crowd about a bunch of Western race-track crooks who had just pulled off some skin game out in St. Louis. The head devil, he said, was a pool-room owner by the name of Teller. “What Teller?” I asked him. “Hi Teller; H. S. Teller.” “I know that bird,” I said. “He’s no good,” said McDevitt. “He’s worse than that,” I said, “and I have a little matter to settle with him.” “Meaning how?” “The only way I can hit any of the short sports is through their pocketbook. I can’t touch him in St. Louis just now, but some day I will.” And I told McDevitt my grievance. “Well,” says old Mac, “he tried to connect here in New York and couldn’t make it, so he’s opened a place in Hoboken. The word’s gone out that there is no limit to the play and that the house roll has got the Rock of Gibraltar faded to the shadow of a bantam flea.” “What sort of a place?” I thought he meant pool room. “Bucket shop,” said McDevitt. “Are you sure it’s open?” “Yes; I’ve seen several fellows who’ve told me about it.” “That’s only hearsay,” I said. “Can you find out positively if it’s running, and also how heavy they’ll really let a man trade?” “Sure, sonny,” said McDevitt. “I’ll go myself to-morrow morning, and come back and tell you.”