“Be still and follow me,” and the Englishman went on with the inventory. “There!” when he had done, “not a dutiable thing except this German-Scotch whisky, and that is so bad that I give it to you rather than pay duty. What next? My passports? Here they are, absolutely flawless, vised by the authorities in Vienna.”
The slips crackled in the fluttering fingers of the inspector. “They are as you say, Monsieur,” he said, returning the permits. Then he added timidly, “And the gun cases?”
“The gun cases!” The pipe spilled its coal to the floor. “The gun cases!”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And why do you wish to look into them?” with agitation.
“Smugglers sometimes fill them with cigars.”
“Ah!” The Englishman selected two loaded shells, drew a gun from the case, threw up the breech and rammed in the shells. Then he extended the weapon to within an inch of the terrified inspector's nose. “Now, Monsieur the Spectacles, look in there and tell me what you see.”
The fellow sank half-fainting into a chair. “Mon Dieu, Monsieur, would you kill me who have a family?”
“What's a customs inspector, more or less?” asked the terrible islander, laughing. “I advise you not to ask me to let you look into the other gun, out of consideration for your family. It has hair triggers, and my fingers tremble.”
“Monsieur, Monsieur, you do wrong to trifle with the law. I shall be obliged to report you. You will be arrested.”