C. C. hotel-books began to strain
and threaten to break away, and everything sort of gave up the
ghost and died. Everything, that is, except the winning smile.
'Til one afternoon with only that asset left Marley met the
department head on the grass-bordered path in front of the
Episcopal chapel, just where the long descent ends and a man
begins to regain his tractable mood, and said Marley:
"Say, looka here, Chief. It's a question of eats with me. We can't
put this thing off much longer or--"
Which is why that evening's train carried Marley, with a police
badge and the little flat volume bound in imitation leather in his
pocket, out to some substation commander along the line for the
corporal in charge to break in and hammer down into that finished
product, a Zone Policeman.
Incidentally Marley also illustrated some months later one of the
special ways of getting off the force. It was still simpler. Going
"on pass" to Colon to spend a little evening, Marley neglected to
leave his No. 38 behind in the squad-room, according to Z. P.
rules. Which was careless of him. For when his spirits reached
that stage where he recognized what sport it would be to see the
"Spigoty" policemen of Bottle Alley dance a western cancan he
bethought him of the No. 38. Which accounts for the fact that the
name of Marley can no longer be found on the rolls of the Z.
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