at disgustedly. "Never seen a booze peddler, never seen
a cop look my way. I went around actin' like I just killed a man an'
stole a lady's diamonds, and the sheriff at San Berdoo TIPS 'IS HAT TO
ME, by golly! Drove through L. A. hella-whoopin' an' not a darned
traffic cop knowed it was Casey Ryan. You can ask anybody if I didn't
do every thing possible to git in bad or give bootleggers a tip I was
one of 'em.

"You can't git Casey Ryan up agin' the gang you're after, Mr. Nolan.
Only way Casey Ryan can git up agin' the law is to go along peaceable
tryin' to please the missus an' mindin' his own business. I coulda
peddled that damn' hootch on a hangin' tray like circus lemonade. I
coulda stood on the corner in any uh them damned towns with the hull
works piled out on a table in front of me, an' I coulda hollered my
damn' head off; an' Smilin' Lou woulda passed me by like I was sellin'
chewin' gum and shoe strings."

Mack Nolan looked at Casey, turned and went into the cabin, sat down on
the edge of the bed and laughed until the tears dripped over his
lashes. Casey Ryan followed him, and sat on the edge of the table with
his arms folded. Whenever Mack Nolan lifted his face from his palms
and looked at Casey, Casey swore. Whereat Mack Nolan would give
another whoop.

You can't wonder if relations were somewhat strained, between them for
the rest of that day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nature had made Casey Ryan an optimist. The blood of Ireland had made
him pugnacious. And Mack Nolan had a way with him. Wherefore, Casey
Ryan once more came larruping down the grade to Camp Cajon and turned
in there with a dogged purpose in his eyes and with his jaw set
stubbornly. History has it that whenever Casey Ryan gets that look in
his face, the man underneath might just as well holler and crawl out;
because holler he must, before Casey would ever let him up.

Behind him, stowed under the bedding, grub and camp dishes, rode his
eight cases of bootlegger's bait, packed convincingly in the sawdust,
straw and cardboard of the wet old days when Uncle Sam himself O. K.'d
the job. A chain of tiny beads at the top of each bottle lied and said
it was good liquor. The boxes themselves said, "This side up"--when
any side up would thrill the soul of the man who owned a wet appetite
and a dry throat.

It was a good job Mack Nolan had made of the bottling. Uncle Sam
himself must needs polish his spectacles and take another look