whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the line."

C.N. gave another little chirrup of mirth. "Keep your brains whittled
up, don't you? Any advice you'd like to give?"

Tom was not to be drawn. "None, sir."

"No comments, son? Passin' it up to Uncle Newt, eh?"

"You're the head of the firm. I'm hired to do as I'm told."

"You figure on obeyin' orders and lettin' it go at that?"

"Not quite." The young fellow's square chin jutted out. "For instance,
I'm not gonna smuggle liquor through any more. I had my eyes opened
this trip. You haven't been on the ground like I have. If you want a
plain word for it, Uncle Newt--"

"Speak right out in meetin', Tom. Shouldn't wonder but what I can
stand it." The transplanted Yankee slanted at his nephew a quizzical
smile. "I been hearin' more or less plain language for quite a spell,
son."

Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder, quietly but without
apology. "Sellin' whiskey to the tribes results in wholesale murder,
sir."

"Strong talk, boy," his uncle drawled.

"Not too strong. You know I don't mean anything personal, Uncle Newt.