"Well, my boy, it isn't exactly easy to get certificated gentlemen for the work," said Mr. Fontaine, stung into irony. "But don't let's go into that now, Claude. You must have confidence in me. One of these days I shall give you the history of the whole matter from A to Z."
"But look here, father. Suppose we were caught!"
Mr. Fontaine sat down in an armchair opposite his son and lighted a cigar with leisurely grace.
"It's a possibility," he said, "a slim possibility. But we have excellent friends."
"Government officials?"
"H'm—yes. More especially—there's Colonel Armstrong."
"Mr. Armstrong! You don't mean to say he dickers with backstairs political grafters?"
"'Dickers' is hardly the word. Colonel Armstrong stands above, about and underneath the political machines—both of them."
"Mr. Armstrong in the boodle game! I can scarcely believe it."
"Boodle game! Don't talk like a grocer or a reporter, Claude. Mr. Armstrong is a lover of fine art who, like all sensible people, thinks it monstrous to tax foreign works of art destined to do an educational service here. By virtue of his influence at Washington, he has been able to use his good offices to our advantage. The result is that the Customs House officials are wise enough not to go behind our list of import declarations."