LUCKY BREAK, by Will F. Jenkins

Originally published in Colliers, September 26, 1926.

Alex Hunt believed that sooner or later everybody gets a lucky break, whether he deserves it or not. And he was right. Every­body does. But it happened that in his case fate, or destiny, or something, was a little more insistent than usual. So he cashed in.

It started on a Friday evening when, briefcase in hand, he was jammed in the corner of the vestibule in a subway car. He did not notice the man with floppy ears, or notice that he carried a briefcase too. Not at first.

The train stopped. People struggled to get out. People struggled to get in. Then Alex saw the man with the floppy ears. He wore a natty straw hat. He looked about right to be the cashier of some firm or other. He carried a brief­case. And he was scared. Badly scared. His eyes were panic-filled. And Alex suddenly realized that his fright was caused by four men who seemed strug­gling to get out but actually stayed close around him.

A flood of passengers surged in. The man with the floppy ears was caught in the impact of their pushing. He reeled against Alex, and Alex heard him pant­ing as if in terror. Their bodies were jammed together for an instant. Alex’s briefcase was torn away. The next in­stant its handle slid back between his fingers.

Then, suddenly, the floppy-eared man grew desperate. He dived for the door leading back to the following car. He darted out to the platform from there, his straw hat bobbing. The four men leaped after him.

The train jerked into motion. Alex stood jammed in the corner of the vesti­bule, holding his briefcase in his hand. His eyes gleamed excitedly. Because the briefcase in his hand was not his—it belonged to the man with the floppy ears!

* * * *

In his own room, Alex opened the briefcase. The breath went out of him when he looked. The briefcase was full of bank notes! He counted eighteen thou­sand, one hundred and seventy dollars in ten- and twenty-dollar bills. In pack­ets, with elastic bands around them.

Shivering, he looked for the name of the owner. He picked out the packets of money. No bankbook. No memorandum. No bank slips. The briefcase and its contents were anonymous.

“But—how am I—” Alex gulped. “How am I going to take it back? I—want to be honest.…”

Then, quite suddenly, he knew that he had lied. He shivered again. He remem­bered that his own briefcase carried no identifying mark and that nothing in it bore his name or that of his firm. There was no possible way for anybody to trace the other briefcase to him! Trembling, he hid the briefcase and the money.

This was Friday night.

* * * *

On Monday night, he had not spent a penny of the money, but nobody had come for it, either. At the end of ten days nothing had happened. Nor at the end of twenty. Thirty. But if it were found now, he’d be considered to have stolen it. The thought scared him. Ten—twenty years in jail.…

He knew the man with floppy ears would haunt the subway—the Lenox Avenue line—hoping to see him again.

So he changed his manner of life in one respect. Every evening he went from the office to the public library for an hour, and then went home—and not by the Lenox Avenue line. He studied the work he did in the office. He gave the impres­sion of an ambitious young man pre­paring himself for a betterjob. He dodged all possibility that the man with floppy ears would find him. And he had hidden the money so that no search of his room would disclose it.

Four months passed. Five. Six…

Now, at last, he felt that he was safe. He had only to resign his job on the plea of a better one offered him, dis­appear from the city, enjoy himself in leisure.

Then he went to redeem his overcoat. Everything was prepared. He’d re­signed his job. It was amusing that the big boss had sent for him and offered him a five-dollar raise. He’d talked im­pressively of Alex’s new-found dependa­bility and interest in his work. A better job was almost ready for him.…

Alex laughed to himself, as he turned into the pawnshop.

A frizzy-haired young man took his pawn ticket. He vanished in the rear. He was gone for what seemed a long time, during which Alex’s heart pumped louder and louder. It seemed so silent.…

The young man came back with Alex’s coat. Alex paid, slipped it on, and went out into the rain.

And then a man stopped short, and stared at him. He swore luridly in sheer surprise. It was the man with floppy ears.

“What’d you do with the stuff, fella?” he asked conversationally. “Got any­thing left?”

Alex Hunt’s world had crashed. A desperate despair filled him.

“Y-yes.” He choked. He said thickly, “I’ll g-give it all back—”

The other man started perceptibly. He caught at Alex’s arm. There was a papery rustling.

“Y’got it yet?—Y’got it in y’coat!”

Alex could not reply. Sheer terror filled him. The other man dragged him swiftly to the doorway of the closed store. He tore at the overcoat with practiced fingers. Alex could not resist. The lining ripped. Bank notes. Tens. Twen­ties. The man with floppy ears looked at them hungrily and swore. For a moment there was silence. Then, resignedly, the man with the floppy ears tore the bank notes across. He tore them into shreds. He brushed them away.

“I shoulda known,” he said philosophi­cally. “There ain’t nobody would take that stuff now. Yeller. Brittle. Y’couldn’t pass it on a baby!”

He shrugged and looked tolerantly at Alex.

“The fella that made it was slick,” he confided; “he hadda stunt that made his paper damn good. But it wouldn’t stay that way. This stuff’s all gone now. Phooey!”

He grinned at Alex. And Alex, dazed, said hoarsely, “You mean—you mean it’s counterfeit?”

“What? Sure!” said the man with floppy ears. “Nothin’ else.” He turned up his coat collar. “The dicks were closin’ in on me, so I shoved it off on you.”

He swung out of the doorway and was gone.

Alex stood rocking on his feet in the store entrance. Presently he sobbed. Be­cause he had believed that sooner or later everybody gets a lucky break, whether he deserves it or not. And now that belief was gone; he could no longer expect, even in dreams, anything that he had not earned for himself.

Which was his lucky break. He real­ized it later on—after he had become moderately rich. Everybody does get a lucky break, whether he deserves it or not. It simply happened that in Alex Hunt’s case fate, or destiny, or some­thing, was a little more insistent than usual. So he cashed in.