At last they shook on the bargain—and a bargain it most obviously was from the trader's point of view. Mr. Raoul Dement, or so the company man styled himself, presented the visiting captain two flasks of the violet liquor after the old custom of the trade.
"Nice stuff," observed Hank Karns, licking his lip. "The best I ever."
"There's twelve cases of it in the warehouse," said Dement, with a wink. "Now, if you were the smuggling sort, there would be a nice profit for you. But, of course...."
"Hell," exploded Hank Karns, "running comet-dew's no sin. Wisht I had a decimo for every gallon I've hauled. Once in a coon's age I get stuck with a little fine, but shucks—the customer'll allus pay that for you."
There followed more dickering, but the upshot of it was that Hank Karns signed up for everything that had been offered him.
"Bon voyage," said Mr. Dement. "If you ever pass this way again, drop in and visit."
"Sure will," said Hank Karns, looking his man in the eye. He was interested in his host's forehead. About an inch from the right temple there was a slight depression—the ineradicable scar of an old skull injury.
Mercury was still a big disk behind when the Swapper straightened out on her earthward trajectory.
"Step alive there, Billy, we got lots to do."