The night was very dark. There was service in the church, and the building glimmered through all its crevices like a dim Kirk Allowa’. I saw few other lights, but was indistinctly aware of many people stirring in the darkness, and a hum and sputter of low talk that sounded stealthy. I believe (in the old phrase) my beard was sometimes on my shoulder as I went. Muller’s was but partly lighted, and quite silent, and the gate was fastened. I could by no means manage to undo the latch. No wonder, since I found it afterwards to be four or five feet long—a fortification in itself. As I still fumbled, a dog came on the inside and snuffed suspiciously at my hands, so that I was reduced to calling “House ahoy!” Mr. Muller came down and put his chin across the paling in the dark. “Who is that?” said he, like one who has no mind to welcome strangers.
“My name is Stevenson,” said I.
“O, Mr. Stevens! I didn’t know you. Come inside.”
We stepped into the dark store, when I leaned upon the counter and he against the wall. All the light came from the sleeping-room, where I saw his family being put to bed; it struck full in my face, but Mr. Muller stood in shadow. No doubt he expected what was coming, and sought the advantage of position; but for a man who wished to persuade and had nothing to conceal, mine was the preferable.
“Look here,” I began, “I hear you are selling to the natives.”
“Others have done that before me,” he returned pointedly.
“No doubt,” said I, “and I have nothing to do with the past, but the future. I want you to promise you will handle these spirits carefully.”
“Now what is your motive in this?” he asked, and then, with a sneer, “Are you afraid of your life?”
“That is nothing to the purpose,” I replied. “I know, and you know, these spirits ought not to be used at all.”
“Tom and Mr. Rick have sold them before.”