Then suddenly he snatched up a sheet of I.
C. C. stationery, dropped down at a typewriter, and wrote at
express speed a letter in Spanish. Next he grasped a telephone
and, in the words of the deskman, "spit Spig into the 'phone" for
several minutes. That over he caught up an envelope, sealed the
letter and addressed it. An instant later the station was in an
uproar looking for a stamp. One was found, the Corporal stuck it
on the letter, fell suddenly motionless and stared for a long time
at vacancy. Then a new thought struck him. He jerked open a drawer
of the "gum-shoe" desk, flung the letter inside--where I found it
accidentally one day some weeks afterward--and dropping into the
swivel-chair laid his feet on the "gum-shoe" blotter and a moment
later seemed to have fallen asleep.
By all of which signs those of us who knew him began to suspect
that the Corporal had something on his mind. Not a few considered
him the best detective on the force; at least he was different
enough from a printer's ink detective to be a real one. But
naturally the strain of heading a detective bureau for weeks was
beginning to wear upon him.
"Damn it!" said the Corporal suddenly, opening his eyes, "I can't
be in six places at once. You'll have to handle these cases," and
he drew from a pocket and handed me three typewritten sheets, then
drifted away into the dusk.
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