Hand Company--who keep out of sight, pay the money,
employ the tools and collar the swag. They have agents all over this
province, as well as India, China and the Straits."

"Where does the stuff come from?"

"It's chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England."

"What, you don't mean that! I always thought it was concocted out
here."

"'Tis little ye know! It is mostly sent in from Hamburg, and in all
manner of clever ways; the smugglers are as cute as foxes and up to
every mortal dodge. A lot of the contraband is done by native crews,
of course without the knowledge of the ships' officers. Hydrochloride
of cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or
in larger quantities in false bottoms of boxes, under plates in the
engine room, or in the bulkheads."

"But how can they possibly land the stuff?" inquired Shafto.

"Easier than you think! There are lots of nice, lonely, sequestered
coves, where goods can be put ashore of a dark night, or dropped
carefully overboard, hermetically sealed, with an empty tin canister as
a float, and picked up at daybreak by a friendly sampan. Of course,
the customs house officers have to be reckoned with from the moment a
ship enters till she leaves the port, but sometimes in this drowsy
climate a man falls asleep in his long chair, and here is the
_serang's_ chance--the _serang_ being the head and leader of the crew.
The contraband is quickly lowered in gunny bags to the sampans and
carried off in triumph to its destination. However, not long ago, the
customs made a haul of twelve hundred ounces; out here cocaine sells
for six pounds an ounce. So that was a nice little loss, and yet only
a drop in the ocean--for every grain that is seized a pound enters the
market. Oh, I'd make my fortune if I could run one of these foxes to
earth."

"I wish you could," said Shafto; "have you no clue, no suspicions?"

"Hundreds of suspicions, but no clue. There's a fellow in a sampan who
unnecessarily hoists a white umbrella--I have my best eye on him; and
there is said to be a broken-down, past-mending motor-launch in a creek
beyond Kemmendine, which I propose, when I have a chance, to overhaul
on the quiet. Chinese steamers plying between Japan and Rangoon run
stacks of contraband; as soon as one method of landing is discovered
they find another; their ingenuity is really interesting to watch. The
chief smugglers are never caught--only their