There was nothing to do therefore but to ramble out armed with a
lead pencil into a virtually unknown town riotous with liquor and
negroes and the combination of Saturday night, circus time, and
the aftermath of pay-day, and to strut back and forth in a way to
suggest that I was a perambulating arsenal. But though I wandered
a long two hours into every hole and corner where trouble might
have its breeding-place, nothing but noise took place in my sight
and hearing. I turned disgustedly away toward the tents pitched in
a grassy valley between the two Gatuns. At least there was a faint
hope that the equestrienne might assault the ring-master.
I approached the tent flap with a slightly quickening pulse.
World-wide and centuries old as is the experience, personally I
was about to "spring my badge" for the first time. Suppose the
doortender should refuse to honor it and force me to impress upon
him the importance of the Z. P.--without a gun? Outwardly
nonchalant I strolled in between the two ropes. Proprietor Shipp
looked up from counting his winnings and opened his mouth to shout
"ticket!" I flung back my coat, and with a nod and a half-wink of
wisdom he fell back again to computing his lawful gains.
By the way, are not you who read curious to know, even as I for
long years wondered, where a detective wears his badge? Know then
that long and profound investigation among the Z.
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