"Whin I was took on the cops, as I say, they was no graduatin' exercises like a young ladies' siminary. The comish—it was auld Malachi Bannon—looked ye square in the eye and said, 'Young fella, ye're about to go forth and riprisint the majesty of the law. Whin on juty be clane and sober and raisonably honest. Keep a civil tongue in your head for ivrybody, even Republicans. Get to know your precinct like a book. Don't borrow trouble. But above all, rimimber this: a cop can do a lot of queer things and square himself wid me afterward, but there's one sin no cop can square—the sin of runnin' away whin needed. Go to your post.'"
Little Peter nodded his head.
They paced along in silence for a time. Then Peter asked,
"Jawn——"
"What, Pether?"
"Jawn, where is the Tropic of Capricorn?"
Officer Gaffney wrinkled his grey eyebrows quizzically.
"The Tropic of Whichicorn?" he inquired.
"The Tropic of Capricorn," repeated Peter.
"Pether," said Officer Gaffney, dubiously, scratching his head with the tip of his night-stick, "I disrimimber but I think—I think, mind ye, it's in the Bronx."