posit there, then $100 in another place a few days later, and so
forth, spending only a few minutes each time and going forward
anywhere from a couple of days to almost a month.

Every now and then, I had a stamped, addressed envelope to mail at a
corner box. They were addressed to different stock brokers and when I
got one open before mailing it and took a look inside, it turned out
to be an order to buy a few hundred shares of stock in a soft drink
company in the name of Dr. Anthony Roberts. I hadn't remembered the
price of the shares being that low. The last time I'd seen the
quotation, it was more than five times as much as it was then. I was
making dough myself, but I was doing even better for May Roberts.

A few times I had to stay around for an hour or so. There was the
night I found myself in a flashy speakeasy with two envelopes that I
was to bet the contents of, according to the instructions on the
outside. It was June 21, 1932, and I had to bet on Jack Sharkey to
take the heavyweight title away from Max Schmeling.

The place was serious and quiet--no more than three women, a couple of
bartenders, and the rest male customers, including two cops, huddling
up close to the radio. An affable character was taking bets. He gave
me a wise little smile when I put the money down on Sharkey.

"Well, it's a pleasure to do business with a man who wants an American
to win," he said, "and the hell with the smart dough, eh?"

"Yeah," I said, and tried to smile back, but so much of the smart
money was going on Schmeling that I wondered if May Roberts hadn't
made a mistake. I couldn't remember who had won. "You know what J. P.
Morgan said--don't sell America short."

"I'll take a buck for my share," said a sour guy who barely managed to
stand. "Lousy grass growing in the lousy streets, nobody working, no
future, nothing!"

"We'll come out of it okay," I told him confidently.

He snorted into his gin. "Not in our lifetime, Mac. It'd take a
miracle to put this country on its feet again. I don't believe in
miracles." He put his scowling face up close to mine and breathed
blearily and belligerently at me. "Do you?"

"Shut up, Gus," one of the bartenders said. "The fight's starting."

* * * * *

I had some tough moments and a lot of bad Scotch, listening. It went
the whole 15 rounds, Sharkey won, and I was in almost as bad shape as
Gus, who'd passed out halfway through the battle. All I ca