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."