It was beginning to get dark before the loaded carts of the salvage party came lumbering past Murray's windows and into the yard of the police-barrack. We followed them, and in so doing picked up Flurry Knox, who was sauntering in the same direction. It was a good haul, five big casks of rum, and at least a dozen smaller barrels of bacon and butter, and Murray and his Chief Constable smiled seraphically on one another as the spoil was unloaded and stowed in a shed.
"Wouldn't it be as well to see how the butter is keeping?" remarked Flurry, who had been looking on silently, with, as I had noticed, a still and amused eye. "The rim of that small keg there looks as if it had been shifted lately."
The sergeant looked hard at Flurry; he knew as well as most people that a hint from Mr. Knox was usually worth taking. He turned to Murray.
"Will I open it, sir?"
"Oh! open it if Mr. Knox wishes," said Murray, who was not famous for appreciating other people's suggestions.
The keg was opened.
"Funny butter," said Flurry.
The sergeant said nothing. The keg was full of black bog-mould. Another was opened, and another, all with the same result.
"Damnation!" said Murray, suddenly losing his temper. "What's the use of going on with those? Try one of the rum casks."
A few moments passed in total silence while a tap and a spigot were sent for and applied to the barrel. The sergeant drew off a mugful and put his nose to it with the deliberation of a connoisseur.