B. M. Bower

“ Nolan. It'd be a fine joke on Smilin' Lou."
"A good joke, maybe—but no evidence. It isn't against the law, Ryan, to have cold tea in your possession. No, it's got to be whisky, and there's got to be a load of it. Enough to look like business and tempt him or any other member of the gang you happen to meet. If they caught you with three gallons, Casey, they'd probably run you in and feel very virtuous about it. Nothing for it, I'm afraid. We'll have to become real moonshiners ourselves for awhile."
Casey ate with less appetite after that. Making moonshine did not appeal to him at all. ”

“ I like your not wanting to explain to the sheriff. Prohibition officers do not explain, as a rule. The law behind them does that.
"And since the price seems to be rather hard on the knuckles—" He glanced down at Casey's hands and grinned. "—I think it may come cheaper to make the stuff ourselves. Licking two men for three gallons, and getting the officers at your tail light into the bargain, is all right as an experiment; but I don't believe, Ryan, we ought to adopt that as a habit."
Casey cocked an eye up at him. "Did yuh ever make White Mule, Mr. Nolan?" ”

“ Casey retorted with heavy dignity. "Will yuh pack it in, Mr. Nolan, whilst I back the car in the shed, or shall I bring it when I come? It ain't so much," he added drily, "but it cost the trouble of a trainload."
"I'll take it in," said Nolan. "If any one does come we want no evidence in reach."
Casey turned to the car, clawed at his camp outfit and lifted out a demijohn which he grimly handed to Nolan. "Fer many a mile it rode on the seat with me so I could drink 'er down if they got me cornered," he grinned. "One good swaller is about the size of it, Mr. Nolan." ”