Aggie was still far from well that night. She said the floor kept rising and falling, and at dinner several times she had clutched at her plate to keep it from sliding off the table. So she had been about to pour herself a glass of blackberry cordial, when Lily May saw Mr. MacDonald coming, and hastily took the bottle and hid it under a table.
Christopher brought him in, and he sat down and began to sniff almost immediately. But he said that he had called to secure our assistance; it wasn’t often he needed help, but he needed it now.
“It’s these here rum runners, ladies,” he said. “You take a place like this, all islands and about a million of them. We’ve got as much coast line as the state of California.”
“Indeed?” said Tish politely.
“And they know every inch of it. And every trick,” he added. “’Tain’t more than a week now since the government inspector found a case of Black and White tied under the surface to one of the channel buoys. And who’s to know whether the fellows hauling up lobster pots aren’t hauling up something else too?”
“Very probably they are,” said Tish dryly—“from the price of lobsters.”
“There’s liquor all around these waters. Last big storm we had, a lot of it must have got smashed up, and there was a porpoise reeling around the town wharf for two or three hours. Finally it brought up against one of the poles of the fish pier and went asleep there. It was a disgraceful exhibition.”
“Tish,” Aggie said suddenly, “if this floor doesn’t keep still that bottle will upset.”
Mr. MacDonald stared at her and then cleared his throat.
“Of course I’m taking for granted,” he said, “that you ladies believe in upholding the law.”