A brass-check; police badge; I. C. C. hotel coupon-book; Commissary coupon-book; “120-Trip Ticket” (a booklet containing blank passes between any stations on the P. R. R., to be filled out by holder) Mileage book (purchased by employees at half rates of 2 1/2 cents a mile for use when traveling on personal business) “24-Trip Ticket” (a free courtesy pass to all “gold” employees allowing one monthly round trip excursion over any portion of the line) Freight-train pass for the P. R. R.; Dirt-train and locomotive pass for the Pacific division; ditto for the Central division; likewise for the Atlantic division; (in short about everything on wheels was free to the “gum-shoe” except the “yellow car”) Passes admitting to docks and steamers at either end of the Zone; note-book; pencil or pen; report cards and envelopes (one of which the plain-clothes man must fill out and forward to headquarters “via train-guard” wherever night may overtake him—­ “the gum-shoe’s day’s work,” as the idle uniformed man facetiously dubs it).

Furthermore the man out of uniform is popularly supposed never to venture forth among the populace without: 

Belt, holster, cartridges, and the No. 38 “Colt” that reminds you of a drowning man trying to drag you down; handcuffs; police whistle; blackjack (officially he never carries this; theoretically there is not one on the Isthmus.  But the “gum-shoe” naturally cannot twirl a police club, and it is not always policy to shoot every refractory prisoner).  Then if he chances to be addicted to the weed there is the cigarette-case and matches; a watch is frequently convenient; and incidentally a few articles of clothing are more or less indispensable even in the dry season.  Now and again, too, a bit of money does not come amiss.  For though the Canal Zone is a Utopia where man lives by work-coupons alone, the detective can never know at what moment his all-embracing duties may carry him away into the foreign land of Panama; and even were that possibility not always staring him in the face, in the words of “Gorgona Red,” “You’ve got t’ have money fer yer booze, ain’t ye?”

Which seems also to be Uncle Sam’s view of the matter.  Far and away more important than any of the plain-clothes equipment thus far mentioned is the “expense account.”  It is unlike the others in that it is not visible and tangible but a mere condition, a pleasant sensation like the consciousness of a good appetite or a youthful fullness of life.  The only reality is a form signed by the czar of the Zone himself tucked away among I. C. C. financial archives.  That authorizes the man assigned to special duty in plain clothes to be reimbursed money expended in the pursuance of duty up to the sum of $60 per month; though it is said that the interpretation of this privilege to the full limit is not unlikely to cause flames of light, thunderous rumblings, and other natural phenomena in the vicinity of Empire and Culebra.  But please note further; these expenditures may be only “for cab or boat hire, meals away from home, and liquor and cigars!” Plainly the “gum-shoe” should be a bachelor.