smirk of the Panamanian office-holder who feels the painful
necessity of keeping on outwardly good terms with all Americans. I
flashed my badge and mentioned a name. A few moments later there
was presented to me a sturdy, if somewhat flabby, young Spaniard
carefully dressed and perfumed. We bowed like life-long
acquaintances and, stepping down to the street, entered a cab. The
prisoner, which he was now only in name, was a muscular fellow
with whom I should have fared badly in personal combat. I was
wholly unarmed, and in a foreign land. All those sundry little
unexplained points of a policeman's duty were bubbling up within
me. When the prisoner turned to remark it was a warm day should I
warn him that anything he said would be used against him? When he
ordered the driver to halt before the "Panazone" that he might
speak to some friends should I fiercely countermand the order?
What was my duty when the friends handed him some money and a
package of cigars? Suppose he should start to follow his friends
inside to have a drink--but he didn't. We drove languidly on down
the avenue and up into Ancon, where I heaved a genuine sigh of
relief as we crossed the unmarked street that made my badge good
again. The prisoner was soon behind padlocks and the money and
cigars in the station safe. These and him and the transfer card I
took again with me into the foreign Republic in time for the
evening train. But he seemed even more anxious than I to attract
no attention, and once in Empire requested that we take the
shortest and most inconspicuous route to the police station; and
my responsibility was soon over.

Many were the Z.P. facts I picked up during the next few days in
the swivel-chair. The Zone Police force of 1912 consisted of a
Chief of Police, an Assistant Chief, two Inspectors, four