"It's all the same to me," said Major. "What I'm thinking about is the few bottles that we might carry in. Judge would appreciate hearing our toast, when we see him."
"Deacon's the boy to lug in the grog," said Ferret cunningly. "He could pack it under his coat. There's plenty of room around that spindle shape of his. Lend him one of your coats, Butcher."
"Why worry about it?" questioned Butcher. "Like enough Judge will have a house-load of booze in over the Canadian border. No use monkeying with the custom men, if we can help it."
"There's sense in that," declared Major. "You know I don't like to take foolish chances. There are enough big ones. It was a great load off my mind when we spotted that plane off the Florida coast. The crew figured we sent in our full liquor supply then."
"They've been educated to it," observed Deacon.
"The important thing now," resumed Major, "is to split up after we land. Handshakes at the dock. The best of luck — for the future!"
"And no tears from you, Deacon," said Butcher. "I thought you were going to bust out crying when we made that overboard heave down in the Caribbean—"
"Forget it, Butcher," growled Major; "forget it! Deacon has forgotten it. That reminds me, Ferret — you're the one that has some forgetting to do."
"Major is right, Ferret," seconded Deacon.
"That letter writing" — Major shook his head in disapproval — "it wasn't right, Ferret!"