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. P.
But all this is sadly anticipating.

Obviously, you will say, a force recruited from such dissimilar
sources must be a thing of wide and sundry experience. And
obviously you are right. Could a man catch up the Z. P. by the
slack of the khaki riding breeches and shake out their stories as
a giant in need of carfare might shake out their loose change,
then might he retire to some sunny hillside of his own and build
him a sound-proof house with a swimming pool and a revolving