"Perhaps you've been here longer than I. Isn't this whiskey-smuggling
bad business all round?"

"Not for the smuggler. Speakin' as an outsider, I reckon he does it
because he makes money," Morse answered impersonally.

"For the country, I mean. For the trapper, for the breeds, for the
Indians."

"No doubt about that."

"You're a nephew of C.N. Morse, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wish you'd take him a message from me. Tell him that it's bad
business for a big trading firm like his to be smuggling whiskey." The
officer raised a hand to stop the young man's protest. "Yes, I know
you're going to tell me that we haven't proved he's been smuggling.
We'll pass that point. Carry him my message. Just say it's bad
business. You can tell him if you want to that we're here to put an
end to it and we're going to do it. But stress the fact that it isn't
good business. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Very well, sir." A glint of a smile showed in the inspector's eyes.
"I'll give you a Scotch verdict, young man. Not guilty, but don't do
it again. You're discharged."