Lily May sat down on the edge of a thwart and stared at us.
“Look here,” she said, “is the little old bean gone, or has that shot of blackberry cordial gone to my head? What about this stuff you’re loaded with?”
“If there is any fine connected with running fish,” Tish said shortly, “I have yet to hear of it.”
“Fish!” said Lily May in a disgusted tone. “I could do better than that myself. Why not canned corn? Or artificial legs? Or bunion plasters?”
“Fish,” Tish repeated. “Dried fish. And if you dare to intimate——”
“Oh, don’t be so silly!” said Lily May, and yawned. “Now see here, you may be older than I am in years, but I was old when I was born. And I can’t remember the time when I didn’t know whiskey from fish.”
“Whiskey!” said Tish in a terrible voice.
“Booze,” said Lily May. “You’re loaded to the gunwales with booze. You’ve landed, so far, about a hundred cases of first-grade Canadian Club, and if you haven’t made more than I have out of it you’ve been stung. That’s all.”
Tish got up at that and gave her a really terrible look.
“You have made money out of this iniquitous traffic?” she demanded.