en forbidden the importation and consumption of alcohol
in any form stronger than four per cent. beer.

Huntly knew that Inspector Fyles was almost solely at work upon the
capture of contraband liquor. Also he knew, and hated the fact, that
his own duty required that he must give any information concerning
this traffic upon his railroad which the police might require.
Therefore there was an added vehemence in his reply to the officer's
warning.

"Sakes, man! What 'ud you have us do?" he cried, with a laugh that was
more than half angry. "Do you think we're goin' to sit around this
darned diagram of a town readin' temperance tracts, just because
somebody guesses we haven't the right to souse liquor? Think we're
goin' to suck milk out of a kid's feeder, just because you boys in red
coats figure that way? No, sir. Guess that ain't doin'--anyway. I'm
sousing all the liquor I can get my hooks on, an' it's all the sweeter
because of you boys. Outside my duty to the railroad company I
wouldn't raise a finger to stop a gallon of good rye comin' into town,
no, not if the penitentiary was yearnin' to swallow me right up."

Fyles's purposeful eyes surveyed the man with a thoughtful smile.

"Just so," he said coolly. "That clause about 'duty' squares the rest.
You'll need to do your duty about these things. That's all we want.
That's all we intend to have. Do you get me? I'm right here to see
that duty done. The first trip, my friend, and you won't talk of
penitentiary so--easily." The quietness with which he spoke did not
rob his words of their significance. Then he went on, just a shade
more sharply. "Now, see here. When that freight gets in I hold you
responsible that the hindmost car--next the caboose--is dropped here,
and the seals are intact. It's billed loaded with barrels of cube
sugar, for Calford. Get me? That's your duty just now. See you do it."

Huntly understood Fyles. Everybody in Amberley understood him. And the
majority recognized the deliberate purpose lying behind his calmest
assurance. The agent knew that his protest had touched the limit,
consequently there was nothing left him but to carry out instructions
to the letter. He hated the position.

His face twisted into a wry grin.

"Guess you don't leave much to the imagination, inspector," he said
sourly.

Fyles was moving away. He replied over his shoulder.

"No. Just the local color of the particular penitentiary," he said,
with a laugh.

CH