Explore "The Silent Bullet" by Arthur B. Reeve on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was what, in college, we used to call "good football weather" -- a crisp, autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the string of homeward-bound automobiles on the broad parkway. Suddenly a huge black touring car marked with big letters, "P.D.N.Y.," shot past.
"Joy-riding again in one of the city's cars," I remarked. "I thought the last Police Department shake-up had put a stop to that."