In the second-story squad-room of the bungalow were eight
beds. But there were more than enough policemen to go round, and
the legal occupant of the bunk I fell asleep in returned from duty
at midnight and I transferred to the still warm nest of a man on
the "grave-yard" shift.
"It's customary to put a man in uniform for a while first before
assigning him to plain-clothes duty," the Inspector was saying
next morning when I finished the oath of office that had been
omitted in the haste of my appointment, "but we have waived that
in your case because of the knowledge of the Zone the census must
have given you."
Thus casually was I robbed of the opportunity to display my manly
form in uniform to tourists of trains and the Tivoli--tourists, I
say, because the "Zoners" would never have noticed it. But we must
all accept the decrees of fate.
That was the full extent of the Inspector's remarks; no mention
whatever of the sundry little points the recruit is anxious to be
enlightened upon. In government jobs one learns those details by
experience. For the time being there was nothing for me to do but
to descend to the "gum-shoe" desk in Ancon station and sit in the
swivel-chair opposite Lieutenant Long "waiting for orders."
Toward noon a thought struck me. I swung the telephone around and
"got" the Inspector.
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