“It’s customary to put a man in uniform for a while first before assigning him to plain-clothes duty,” the Inspector was saying next morning when I finished the oath of office that had been omitted in the haste of my appointment, “but we have waived that in your case because of the knowledge of the Zone the census must have given you.”

Thus casually was I robbed of the opportunity to display my manly form in uniform to tourists of trains and the Tivoli—­tourists, I say, because the “Zoners” would never have noticed it.  But we must all accept the decrees of fate.

That was the full extent of the Inspector’s remarks; no mention whatever of the sundry little points the recruit is anxious to be enlightened upon.  In government jobs one learns those details by experience.  For the time being there was nothing for me to do but to descend to the “gum-shoe” desk in Ancon station and sit in the swivel-chair opposite Lieutenant Long “waiting for orders.”

Toward noon a thought struck me.  I swung the telephone around and “got” the Inspector.

“All my junk is up in Empire yet,” I remarked.

“All right, tell the desk-man down there to make you out a pass.  Or—­hold the wire!  As long as you’re going out, there’s a prisoner over in Panama that belongs up in Empire.  Go over and tell the Chief you want Tal Fulano.”

I wormed my way through the fawning, neck-craning, many-shaded mob of political henchmen and obsequious petitioners into the sacred hushed precincts of Panama police headquarters.  A paunched “Spigoty” with a shifty eye behind large bowed glasses, vainly striving to exude dignity and wisdom, received me with the oily 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.