"Corklan, where is your still?" asked Sanders.
The plump man laughed. "You'll find it way back in the forest," he said, "and enough sweet potatoes to distil fifty gallons of spirit—all proof, sir, decimal 1986 specific gravity water extracted by Soemmering's method—in fact, as good as you could get it in England."
Sanders nodded. "I remember now—you're the man that ran the still in the Ashanti country, and got away with the concession."
"That's me," said the other complacently. "P. T. Corklan—I never assume an alias."
Sanders nodded again. "I came past villages," he said, "where every man and almost every woman was drunk. I have seen villages wiped out in drunken fights. I have seen a year's hard work ahead of me. You have corrupted a province in a very short space of time, and, as far as I can judge, you hoped to steal a Government ship and get into neutral territory with the prize you have won by your——"
"Enterprise," said Mr. Corklan obligingly. "You'll have to prove that—about the ship. I am willing to stand any trial you like. There's no law about prohibition—it's one you've made yourself. I brought up the still—that's true—brought it up in sections and fitted it. I've been distilling spirits—that's true——"
"I also saw a faithful servant of Government, one Ali Kano," said Sanders, in a low voice. "He was lying on the bank of this secret river of yours with two revolver bullets in him."
"The nigger was spying on me, and I shot him," explained Corklan.
"I understand," said Sanders. And then, after a little pause: "Will you be hung or shot?"
The cigar dropped from the man's mouth. "Hey?" he said hoarsely. "You—you can't—do that—for making a drop of liquor—for niggers!"