The Commissioner stroked his chin reflectively.
"Were you scheduled to go out on post for instruction," he asked, "if you passed your examination?"
"Yes, sir. From eight to eleven."
The Commissioner thought a moment.
"Well," he said, "I'll let you go. It won't alter the case any, of course. You're through, here. Turn in your uniform by eleven thirty, sure."
Peter mumbled his thanks, and went out of the office with shoulders that drooped as if he were carrying a safe on them.
It was with heavy steps and a heavier heart that little Peter Mullaney, by the side of his mentor, passed the corner where Judy McNulty stood proudly waiting for him. He saluted her gravely with two fingers to his visor—police officers never bow—and kept his eyes straight ahead. He did not have the heart to stop, to speak to her, to tell her what had happened to him. He hadn't even told Officer Gaffney. He stalked along in bitter silence; his eyes were fixed on his shoes, the stout, shiny police shoes he had bought to wear at his graduation, the shoes he was to have worn when he stepped up to the Commissioner and received his shield, with head erect and a high heart. His empty hands hung heavily at his sides; there was no baton of authority in them; there never would be. Beneath the place his silver shield would never cover now was a cold numbness.
"Damn the Tropic of Capricorn," came from between clenched teeth, "Damn the Tropic of Capricorn."