“Take it at that anyway,” answered Merriman.
“Very well. Now how long would it be? If we bore too deep a hole we may split the prop. What about two feet six inches into each end? Say a five-foot tube?”
“Take it at that,” Merriman repeated.
“How much brandy could you put into a six-inch tube, five feet long?” He calculated aloud, Merriman checking each step. “That works out at a cubic foot of brandy, six and a quarter gallons, fifty pints or four hundred glasses-four hundred glasses per prop.”
He paused, looked at his friend, and resumed:
“A glass of brandy in France costs you sixpence; in England it costs you half-a-crown. Therefore, if you can smuggle the stuff over you make a profit of two shillings a glass. Four hundred glasses at two shillings. There’s a profit of £40 a prop, Merriman!”
Merriman whistled. He was growing more and more impressed. The longer he considered the idea, the more likely it seemed. He listened eagerly as Hilliard, once again excitedly pacing the room, resumed his calculations.
“Now you have a cargo of about seven thousand props. Suppose you assume one per cent of them are faked, that would be seventy. We don’t know how many they have, of course, but one out of every hundred is surely a conservative figure. Seventy props means £2,800 profit per trip. And they have a trip every ten days—say thirty trips a year to be on the safe side—£84,000 a year profit! My eyes, Merriman, it would be worth running some risks for £84,000 a year!”
“Risks?” cried Merriman, now as much excited as his friend. “They’d risk hell for it! I bet, Hilliard, you’ve got it at last. £84,000 a year! But look here,”—his voice changed—“you have to divide it among the members.”
“That’s true, you have,” Hilliard admitted, “but even so—how many are there? Beamish, Bulla, Coburn, Henri, the manager here, and the two men they spoke of, Morton and Archer—that makes seven. That would give them £12,000 a year each. It’s still jolly well worth while.”