"What has all this to do with Pasasun's drunkenness?" he said.
"Possibly Robison was drunk too. But he is more accustomed to it. Ducane would necessarily need to treat Robison and his relations sometimes—privately, of course."
"This is a very heavy charge, Dick. I can hardly think that you are right. Besides, Ducane has very few permits, and he only brought five gallons in with him. And he can't get much from Grange, or Grange would speak of it. He's honest."
"Oh, my dear chap, there have been plenty of permits booked outside lately in the name of men who never ordered them, and received inside by Ogilvie and others who are not supposed to have them. We know that much—unofficially, of course."
A permit is a two-gallon cask of whiskey allowed, for certain money paid down, to be received at various times by various men of substance and character. But, like all things defined by law, it holds loopholes for evasion. Tempest swung sharp in his chair.
"Do we know that much?" he said.
"Do you think it necessary to play the innocent with me?"
Tempest stiffened. His body took on hard outlines.
"I wonder what sort of man you really are now," he said slowly. "How long have you known of this?"
"Ever since I came. And I considered that you were using your common-sense in shutting your eyes to it. There's no use in drawing too tight a rein, and we'd never get any information with every man's hand against us."
He found himself being led into excuses, and he stopped in anger.
"Do you remember your oath?" asked Tempest.
"I believe you have turned out rather funnier than you promised to be," observed Dick approvingly.
"Never mind that. Do you?"
"I remember subscribing my fervid appreciation to several things which no man keeps or is expected to keep."
