"Yes. The question is, 'Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?' And your answer is"—the Commissioner paused before he pronounced the damning words—"'The Tropic of Capricon is in the Bronx.'"
Peter gulped, blinked, opened and shut his fists, twisted his cap in his hands, a picture of abject misery. The Commissioner's voice was crisp and final.
"That's all, Mullaney. Sorry. Turn in your uniform at once. Well?"
Peter had started away, had stopped and was facing the commissioner.
"Commissioner," he begged——
"That will do," snapped the Commissioner. "I gave you your chance; you understood the conditions."
"It—it isn't that," fumbled out Peter Mullaney, "but—but wouldn't you please let me go out on post once more with Officer Gaffney?"
"I don't see what good that would do," said Commissioner Kondorman, gruffly.
Tears were in Peter's eyes.
"You see—you see——" he got out with an effort, "it would be my last chance to wear the uniform—and I—wanted—somebody—to—see—me—in—it—just—once."