Limekiller!

There was a loonng pause. Then the D.C. said, “Very well.” He gestured to P.C. Lucas, who gathered up the shirt and its precious contents, the D.C. meanwhile unlocking the huge and antique safe, which would certainly not cause Mr. Jimmy Valentine or his successors much trouble; but where was he? It would certainly baffle anybody in Woodcutters Cove, Seville District: shoved the stuffed shirt in under the shelves of official documents, closed and clicked it shut. “We shall, I trust, see you here at shall we say eight of the morning. Good evening, Mr. Limekiller. and I should advise you to think it over.”

And think it over Jack did. All night long.

There was nobody for him to think it over aloud with. save his former First Mate, Skippy the Cat who had been demoted in favor of Felix. Did Skip chant pieces of eight, pieces of eight? Nope: he offered no grounds for belief that because and just because Jack had not been confined in the district gaol for the night that he might not find himself confined there — or in the national one — at some future time. D.C. FitzEvans was a Bavman and hence “cradled on the water,” as were they all: he would know the state of the winds without even taking thought, and he would know that the state of the winds would not carry Limekiller on a flight from Colonial waters at this time. Not only not to “Republican waters,” not to anywhere well — the winds would indeed carry him now' right onto the Muggleton Shoals and there he… or his boat. might have to wait a very long time indeed before any friendly boats and their crews appeared to help tow. push. pull. shove him off; because right on the mainland circumjacent to the Muggleton Shoals was the cabin of old Sully Simpson, a very loud lunatic who notoriously kept open house for Tata Duende, the Spook of the Woods; and nobody darker than lard would come or go within a marine mile of the area.

Therefore, even if he, John Lutwidge Limekiller, was safely out of gaol for the night, such safety could hardly be expected to continue for very long. Maybe they couldn’t prove that he had the gold illegally (though maybe they could). And if not, maybe they couldn’t get him for not having registered it. Or maybe the question of, had he been poaching turtle eggs w-ouldn’t be raised (would Ruddy Goforth.? not without incriminating himself for Abetting, he wouldn’t).

Back and forth his mind raced, with many and many a But, a So, an And all night long. And all the early morning. because in British Hidalgo, “eight of the morning” was absolutely not early!

— and as, for that matter, who were The Individuals who had boarded the Saccharissa and attempted to rob her — Limekiller had no idea. The Colony. which, being irrevocably on its way to independence. would not be a Colony for much longer. had been for long out of the way of the world: but the world, with its internal combustion engines, its radios, its vices, and its crimes, was inexorably creeping in. Jack did not wish to think that the robbers were Nationals (the phrase was replacing the old, bad word Colonials), but it seemed unlikely that foreigners would have come up from Republican waters in a cayuco — but it really didn’t matter. just as it really didn’t matter that if he had been content to, in the delicate Hidalgo phrase, “ease himself’ near to the boat instead of seeking the privacy of the bush on his way to town then he might have spied the intruders and scared them off.

Once again, as so often, he passed the Parsonage, passed the Parson’s Paddock, passed the Anglican Church, and came to the Government Building.

This time Wee-Wee (he was named after the wee-wee ant, which, with its voracious appetite, counterfeits the leaf-eating wee- wee disease) was not on the steps. But that didn’t really matter, either.

The District Commissioner wasted neither time nor words. “Now, Mr. Limekiller, what about this gold?”

J.L. recalled yet again Ruddy Goforth’s Principle: ‘“Stout denial,’ Regardless and whatever: ‘stout. denial.”' For. after all. what alternative? Even if he didn’t get charged with this offense or that offense there was the very good (or very bad) chance of being ordered to leave the country and not come back. And he had, really, grown to love the little land, smaller than Newfoundland, British Hidalgo, the “country that you can put your arms around,” even if it was also “the end of the line.” Being there, even with its bugs and spooks, was and had for quite a time been better than being in Toronto in the snow-and even if it rained just as much as it rained in Vancouver, well the rain was warmer. And also. well. never mind.

“What gold?” he asked.