"Good. Then you'll enjoy the little show I'm putting on--five thousand
dollars' worth of liquor spilt all at one time."

"Holy Moses! Where is this blind tiger you're raidin'?"

"Down in the gully. Lucky you happened along just by chance. You'll be
able to carry the good news to Whoop-Up and adjacent points."

"You're not really aimin' to spill all that whiskey."

"That's my intention. Any objections?" The scarlet-coated officer
spoke softly, without any edge to his voice. But Tom began to
understand why the clerk at the trading-post had called the Mounted
Police go-getters. This smooth-shaven lad, so easy and carefree
of manner, had a gleam in his eye that meant business. His very
gentleness was ominous.

Tom Morse reflected swiftly. His uncle's firm had taken a chance of
this very finale when it had sent a convoy of liquor into forbidden
territory. Better to lose the stock than to be barred by the Canadian
Government from trading with the Indians at all. This officer was not
one to be bribed or bullied. He would go through with the thing he had
started.

"Why, no! How could I have any objections?" Morse said.

He shot a swift, slant look at Barney, a look that told the Irishman
to say nothing and know nothing, and that he would be protected
against the law.