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?"