"The constable took you to the Fort?" FitzHerbert suggested, for the little man's mind had returned to the convivial association of his glass.
"By Jove! forgive me, gentlemen—about the whisky: While I was waiting for an audience with the Polica Ogema I heard, through an open door, a pow-wow over a telegram that had just come. Its general statement was that whisky was being loaded at Winnipeg on car 6100 for delivery at Bald Rock. The Major gave the Sergeant orders to seize the car here."
"Who owns the whisky?" FitzHerbert asked.
"I heard the O.C. say, 'It's that damn Bulldog Carney again!' so I suppose——"
The speaker's eyes opened in wondering perplexity at the blizzard of merriment that cut off his supposition; neither could he understand why FitzHerbert clapped a hand on his shoulder and cried, "Old top, you're a joy!"
The laughter had but died down when Carney rose, and, addressing the little man, held out his hand, saying: "I'm very glad to have met you, sir." Then he was gone.
"I like that man," the derelict declared. "What's his name—you didn't introduce me?"
"That gentleman is Mr. Bulldog Carney," FitzHerbert answered solemnly.
"Oh, I say!" the other gasped.
"Don't worry; you've probably done him a good turn," FitzHerbert answered.