"Don't you believe it. That was no accident. He didn't lose
everything he had in every pocket rolling around drunk in the
street. He's been systematically frisked. Sabe frisked? Get on the
job and look into it."

For the Lieutenant was one of those scarce and enviable beings who
can live with his subordinates as man to man, yet never find an
ounce of his authority missing when authority is needed.

Now and then a Z. P. story whiled away the time. There was the sad
case of Corporal-----in charge of-----station. Early one Sunday
afternoon the Corporal saw a Spaniard leading a goat along the
railroad. Naturally the day was hot. The Corporal sent a policeman
to arrest the inhuman wretch for cruelty to animals. When he had
left the culprit weeping behind padlocks he went to inspect the
goat, tied in the shade under the police station.

"Poor little beast," said the sympathetic Corporal, as he set
before it a generous pan of ice-water fresh from the police
station tank. The goat took one long, eager, grateful draught,
turned over on its back, curled up like the sensitive-plants of
Panama jungles when a finger touches them, and departed this vale
of tears. But Corporal-----was an artist of the first rank. Not
only did he "get away with it" under the very frowning battlements
of the judge, but sent the Spaniard up for ten days on the charge
against him. Z. P.'s who tell the story assert that the Spaniard
did not so much mind the sentence as the fact that the Corporal
got his goat.

Then there was "the Mystery of the Knocked-out Niggers." Day after