to
detect the fraud. It was a marvelous job of bottling,--and the proof
lay only in the drinking. "Tommy" Pepper rode in pint flasks designed
to slip safely into a man's coat pocket. Beside him two cases of
Canadian Club (if you were satisfied with the evidence of your eyes)
sat serene in round-shouldered bottles--conventional, secure in its
reputation. Cognac and Garnkirk, a case for each, rode in tall, slim
bottles with no shoulders at all. Plumper than they, Three Star
Hennessey sat smugly waiting until the joke was turned upon its victim.
A tempting load it was, to men of certain minds and morals. Casey
grinned sardonically when he thought of it.

Casey drove deep into the grove of sycamores and made camp there, away
from the chattering picnic parties at the cement tables. By Mack
Nolan's advice he was adopting a slightly different policy. He no
longer shunned his fellow men or glared suspiciously when strangers
approached. Instead he was very nearly the old Casey Ryan, except that
he failed to state his name and business to all and sundry with the old
Casey Ryan candor, but instead avoided the subject altogether or evaded
questions with vague generalities.

But as an understudy for Ananias, Casey Ryan would have been a failure.
In two hours or less he had made easy trail acquaintance with six
different men, and he had unconsciously managed to vary his vague
account of himself six different times. Wherefore he was presently
asked cautiously concerning his thirst.

"They's times," said Casey, hopefully lowering an eyelid, "when a
feller dassent take a nip, no matter how thirsty he gits."

The questioner stared at him for a minute and slowly nodded. "You're
darn' right," he assented. "I scursely ever touch anything, myself."
And he added vaguely, "Quite a lot of it peddled out here in this camp,
I guess. Tourists comin' through are scared to pack it themselves--but
they sure don't overlook any chances to take a snort."

"Yeah?" Casey cocked a knowing eye at the speaker. "They must pay a
pretty fair price fer it, too. Don't the cops bother folks none?"

"Some--I guess."

Casey filled his pipe and offered his tobacco sack to the man. The
fellow took it, nodding listless thanks, and filled his own pipe. The
two sat down together on the knee of a deformed sycamore and smoked in
circumspect silence.

"Arizona, I see." The man nodded toward the license plates on Casey's
car.

"Uh-huh." Casey glanc