unknown outside the Department; he was, in a way, unknown in his own
official circles.

And then Blake woke up to the fact that some one on the inside was
working against him, was blocking his moves, was actually using him as
a "blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went out
on the "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspected
that his enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, for
Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inkling
of anything, in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blake
was given the talking parts, the rôle of spokesman to the press. He
was more and more posted in the background, like artillery, to
intimidate with his remote thunder and cover the advance of more agile
columns. He was encouraged to tell the public what he knew, but he was
not allowed to know too much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly
resented this rôle of "mouthpiece" for the Department.

"You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down for
insubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you 're only a _park_
gun! That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been,
a park gun for kids to play 'round!"

Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion with
its teeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy on
whom to vent his anger. But he could find no tangible force that
opposed him. He could see nothing on which to centralize his activity.
Yet something or somebody was working against him. To fight that
opposition was like fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to
shoulder back a shadow.