a nice business of telephone bets from wagerers too
busy to get in to make them in person. The never-missing "Out of
Order" sign was to prevent customers from using the telephone for
out-going calls which might interfere with business. The telephone
was, of course, not at all out of order.

"Maybe," I suggested cheerfully, taking my eyes from the telephone
booth, "they'll snatch out your phone on you. Then where'll you be?"

Mike smacked his open palm against his broad brow.

"My God," he exclaimed, "don't say no such things!"

I gulped the rest of my coke, lit another cigarette, shrugged
cheerfully, and started for the door. I turned before leaving.

"Cheer up," I said. "This will probably blow over. And if it doesn't,
there's always the army."

* * * * *

Mike glared and started to answer. And at that moment the telephone in
the booth began to ring. He started for it, and I started out the door
again, running headlong into Mort Robbins.

"Good morning, good morning, chumly!" Mort exclaimed cheerfully when
we had untangled ourselves. "What's new with you?"

Mort is short, slightly on the plump side, with straight, dark hair, a
round, beaming face, and a penchant for flamboyantly colored sport
shirts.

"Nothing's new with me," I told him, "but plenty seems to be new with
Mike. He's cursing the State's Attorney's office again."

Mort frowned.

"Whatcha mean? What's on the fire now? I didn't read the morning rags
yet."

Briefly, I told him about the news story which had excited his
partner. He nodded, thought a moment, then grinned.

"They can't do that," he said. "It's illegal."

"Tell Mike, if that's so," I said. "He's working himself into a boil."

Mort hadn't heard me. He was frowning thoughtfully again.

"Or can they?" he wondered aloud. "Where's that news story?"

I pointed to the paper on the counter and he stepped over to it. I
started to leave again, but at that moment the telephone booth in the
corner shook from side to side and Mike stepped out, face red with
wrath.

"I'd like to get my hands on that guy, the wisenheimer!" he growled.
"Hah! Practical jokes, eh?"

Again I stopped at the door.

"What's wrong this time?" I demanded. "Or is it still the State's
Attorney you're frothing about?"

"Some guy," Mike thundered explosively, "just called to say he wanted
to talk to Hitler and Mussolini. Wise guy, hah, the louse!"

"Hitler and Mussolini?" I demand