He pocketed the money with a pleased smile and strolled on. This was excellent. Very fine, indeed.
Before he reached the center of the lobby he was receiving quite a bit of attention. Men stared unbelievingly at the thick stacks of tickets in his hands, then edged closer to him.
In no time at all Bertie made two more sales and now he had one hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket.
As the word flashed about the lobby that tickets were being sold, something in the nature of a mild stampede resulted.
“Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” Bertie said affably. “There’s plenty here for everybody.”
To facilitate things he climbed onto a table in the center of the lobby. There he was able to pass out the tickets to the crowd below him with little difficulty. From their extended hands he plucked the green bills and the feeling of happiness within him grew deeper with each additional purchase.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “It’s really dirt cheap, you know. It’s practically a steal. Thank you, and you too. Who else? There you are. Fifty dollars to see Mosswood beat State is practically a robbery.”
Bertie became aware of a sharp featured, nattily dressed chap standing directly in front of the table, glancing up at him with unwinking gray eyes.
“Yes sir,” he said genially, “how many?”
“I got tickets,” the sharp featured little man answered, “I just heard you say Mosswood’s goin’ to beat State. Would you care to back that up With a little cash?”
“My dear fellow,” Bertie said in a kind voice, “do you actually mean to tell me that you have money to throw away? State does not have a chance, that’s all there is to it. Save your lettuce, my good chap. Invest it in annuities or life insurance, but don’t bet on State.”
The nattily dressed fellow pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.
“I’m not worrying. If you’re on Mosswood, put up or shut up.”
Bertie’s pride was touched to the quick.
“Sir,” he said, “name the amount and make it light on yourself.”
It took only a few moments to arrange the bet. The money was held by the hotel desk clerk. Bertie bet every cent he had made on the tickets and felt stoutly virtuous about it. After all, it wasn’t really gambling. It was just a quick pleasant manner of doubling his stakes.
The bet made, the sharp-featured little gambler smirked unpleasantly at him and swaggered away.
“Who is he?” Bertie asked the clerk “Him? Oh he’s one of the bookmakers who comes down to this game every year. They call him Sure Thing Lindsay.”
“Hmmmm,” Bertie said.
“That’s because he never bets on anything but a sure thing.”
“Hmmmm,” Bertie said again. “Sure Thing Lindsay, eh?”
It was while he was musing upon the unpleasant things that Mr. Lindsay’s nickname suggested that he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
Turning, he was confronted by two solidly built gentlemen, dressed in gray overcoats and gray fedoras and wearing large black shoes.
“You the guy who’s scalping the tickets?” one of them asked.
Bertie’s spirits rose. Here was fresh fish.
“I’m the one, boys,” he said cheerfully. “Better get ’em now before the price goes up. How many?”
“Probably one to ten,” one of the gray overcoated men said grimly. He pulled a badge from his pocket and shoved it under Bertie’s nose. “We’ve been warning you scalpers all week and now I think we’re goin’ to make an example out of you. We didn’t think we’d find any of you dumb enough to scalp tickets right in the lobby of the leading hotel.”
“Now just a minute, gentlemen,” Bertie said feebly. “This is all some terrible mistake.”
“You said it. And you’re the one that made it. Come on.”
Bertie heard a metallic click and felt cold steel on his wrists. Handcuffed, and with a burly plainclothes man on either side of him, he was led across the lobby, protesting weakly and vainly-
Things looked very black. Gloomy thoughts bobbed through his head. What kind of a country was this turning into, anyway? A man tried to pick up an honest penny and he found himself bundled off to the bastille for possessing a little initiative.
He would certainly miss the game now. And so would Ann. Worse, he couldn’t get in touch with her and tell her he was in jail. That definitely would not be wise.
It was a terrible mess. He didn’t see how things could possibly be worse.
In this dark mood he was hustled across the lobby to the revolving doors that led to the street. There, to his intense humiliation, he was forced to stand like a culprit in the dock, while a steady flow of morbidly curious people surged past him.
Feeling as hounded and persecuted as Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, he nevertheless affected a blandly nonchalant pose. He even hummed a popular ditty and kept time with his feet. He’d show ’em. Let them try and break his spirit. So absorbed was he in this role that he didn’t notice the last two people to enter the revolving door.
He had no idea that disaster was practically nipping at his heels until a smooth, icily cold voice inquired,
“Is this your rehabilitated self?”
Bertie jerked himself around, the breath left his lungs in a gust as he recognized the cold, stern features of his brother.
With his brother was a short, thin, scholarly looking gentleman whom Bertie also recognized. This was Professor Overton, president of Mosswood college.
He was peering near-sightedly at Bertie through his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I say, Professor,” he said to Bertie’s brother, “this chap with the handcuffs on reminds me of your brother.”
“He is my brother,” Bertie’s brother said bitterly. “What’s the charge, officer?” he asked, turning to one of the plain-clothes men.
“Scalping football tickets, peddling without a license, disturbing the peace and probably grand larceny.”
“Grand larceny!” Bertie gasped in outraged indignation. “I haven’t stolen anything.”
“Where’d you get them tickets?”
“I found them,” Bertie said stoutly. Bertie’s brother shook his head grimly.
“This,” he said, “is only a concrete example of what I told you yesterday. You are still mentally and physically incompetent. Anything which I can do to prevent your marrying some unsuspecting girl I most certainly will do. You have disgraced me completely, Bertrand. Continue with your duty, officers.”
Bertie was shoved through the revolving door, his protests and promises flowing back over his shoulder. Outside, one more calamitous experience was awaiting him.
Alighting from a cab at the entrance of the hotel was a slim, lovely blonde girl. As she turned to enter the hotel, Bertie staggered through the revolving door, his handcuffed hands extended before him to keep his balance.
The lovely blonde girl paused for an instant, then with a sob she turned and stepped back into the cab.
Only then did Bertie recognize her.
“Ann!” he cried frantically. “Ann! Things aren’t as bad as they look. This is all a joke. I lost a bet. Ann! Come back.”
But his words were practically smothered in the roar of the cab as it shot away from the curb and into the traffic.
Bertie was left quite alone. Not quite, because the two gray-overcoated officers were still with him. But in spirit he was bleakly and desolately alone.
“Madame Guillotine,” he said blackly, “I embrace you.”
“He’s nuts,” one copper said.
The other nodded.
The American jailing system, in Bertie’s opinion, had not been noticeably improved since last he had favored the institution with his presence.
The cell was small, the doors and windows barred. This last was the worst feature. It gave everything such a definite look.