“I am surprised that anyone should attempt to kill me,” Drew said, as they started for the slip early that morning.
“But isn’t a police officer’s life always in danger?”
“Why, no, I wouldn’t say so. Depends, of course, on your record, and the type of crooks you are assigned to.
“Take the matter of arresting a crook. He doesn’t usually resist, unless you’ve caught him red-handed in crime. Rather take a chance with the judge. Figures you’ve got nothing on him anyway. And I haven’t been in on anything really big. They give those things to older men. Howe and I have been following pickpockets for months. That was my first and it’s my last assignment as a detective so far.
“Pickpockets are seldom violent. Sneaking is their game. They seldom pack a gun. If they do, they don’t know how to use it.”
“That man knew his gun,” said Johnny with a shudder.
“Fairly good gun.” Drew had thrown the cartridges out of the revolver. He had hung it on a nail over the head of his bed. There it was destined to remain until a busy spider had spun a web about it and built him a gauzy home inside the trigger guard. For all that, neither the spider, the revolver, nor the former owner of the revolver were destined to rest long in peace.
“It’s plain enough,” said Johnny, as they reached the sheds, “why that assassin was unconscious of my presence. I had been standing silently in the shadows, a long time, looking for a rat.”
“Well,” chuckled Drew, “you got one, didn’t you?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” replied Johnny. “Probably I did; otherwise why did he drop the gun?”