“Has this request any connection with the collapse of Mr. Ferguson’s church?”
“It has, indirectly. I’m sorry I can’t give you an explanation.”
“Try to understand how I’m situated. I may have my sympathies, but I can’t be a partizan; my business is to see you do your work. Suppose I do as you suggest, will it make any trouble in the camp? I want a straight answer.”
“No,” said Kermode. “I give you my word that what we mean to do will lead to quietness and good order.”
“Then I’ll have the boys you mentioned sent up the track; they’re a crowd I’ve had my eye on. One of your friends and you can lie off.”
Kermode thanked him and went back to the shack, where he kept watch with the leader of the Presbyterians until two police troopers rode up late in the afternoon. They opened the cases and heard Kermode’s story.
“You declare the man Mitcham claimed this liquor as his property?” Sergeant Inglis asked.
“He said he’d bought it. We’re ready to swear to that, and we can give you the names of several more who heard him.”
“I’ll take them down. Where’s Mitcham?”
They told him and he closed his notebook.