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Updated: June 8, 2025
I'm pretty hot when it comes to a scrap," Bill ran on with added confidence. "And a bunch of whisky-runners don't amount to a heap anyway." Suddenly Kate rose from her seat. She moved a step toward him and laid one brown hand gently on his arm. She was smiling as she had smiled at the thought of her regard for this man's brother. There was something almost motherly now in her whole attitude.
As Fyles turned back to the inner room and picked up the telephone, ignoring the still waiting agent, the corporal hurried away. In a moment the telephone bell rang out and the officer was speaking. "Yes, sir, Fyles. Yes, at the Town Station. I'm coming up to barracks right away. It's most important. I must see you. The whisky-runners have doubled on us."
O'Brien found himself responding to the other's smile. These whisky-runners meant everything to him, and he felt it incumbent upon him to display his most amiable side. "Say," he chuckled, "the bark of the old tree's held some dollars of mine in its time. It's a hell of a good thing that tree has a yarn to it. The folks 'ud sure fetch it down for the new church if it hadn't.
His associates are known whisky-runners, men whom the police, everybody, knows have not the wit to inspire the schemes that are carried out under the very noses of the authorities. What is the result? The police look for the brain behind them. Charlie is clever, unusually clever; he drinks, his movements are suspicious. He's asking for trouble, and God knows he's going to find it."
Kate's whole manner had suddenly undergone a change. She seemed to be laboring under an apprehension that almost unnerved her. "Don't you know who Fyles is after? He's after whisky-runners. Don't you know why O'Brien warned you? Because he believes, as pretty nearly everybody believes Fyles, too that your brother Charlie is the head of a big gang of them. Mystery? Mystery?
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