“Good-night,” said Antoine, and shut the door.
But he did not go to bed. The fire had mostly burned out, and now the torch dropped down and the room was full of shadows. He sat awhile on the edge of the bed and made it creak; then he rose and opened the shutter very softly, creeping out. Even then he listened suspiciously. Turning, he ran swiftly down to the river’s edge, through the wet sedge of last year’s grass. Then he gave a low whistle.
Some one answered with an oath. “We were just going away,” in a hissing French voice. “What the devil kept you so?”
“I could not get away. There was a fellow,” and Antoine prefaced the excuse with an oath. “He wouldn’t go; I had to fix a bunk for him.”
“Antoine Freneau, if you betray us—” in a threatening tone.
“Ah, bah! Would I kill the goose that lays golden eggs? Come, hurry.”
They unloaded some cases from the piroque and dumped them on the soft ground.
“Now, carry them yourself. What! No barrow? You are a fool! But we must be off up the river.”
There was considerable smuggling in spite of the watchfulness of the authorities. Duties were levied on so many things, and some—many, indeed—closely under government supervision.
Antoine Freneau tugged and swore. The cases of brandy were not light. He went back and forth, every time peering in the window and listening; but all was quiet. The cases he hid among the trees. He had drawn some tree branches, ostensibly for firewood, and covered the cases with this brush until he could dispose of them more securely.