"True!" said Middlemore, imitating. "If he fires, the hole will be something more than _skin_ deep, I reckon--these pistols, to my knowledge, send a bullet through a two inch plank at twenty paces." As Middlemore thus expressed himself, both he and Grantham saw, or fancied they saw, the blankets slightly agitated. "Good place for a _hide_ that!" said the former, addressing his pun to the settler, on whom it was totally lost, "show us those said skins, my good fellow, and if we find they are not filled with anything it would be treason in a professed British subject to export thus clandestinely, we promise that you shall depart without further hindrance." "Indeed, officer," muttered Desborough sullenly and doggedly, "I shan't do no sich thing. You don't belong to the custom-house, I reckon, and so I wish you a good day, for I have a considerable long course to run, and must be movin'." Then seizing the paddles that were lying on the sand, he prepared to shove the canoe from the beach. "Not at least before I have sent a bullet to ascertain the true quality of your skins," said Grantham, levelling his pistol. "Sure-_ly_," said Desborough, as he turned and drew himself to the full height of his bony and muscular figure, while his eye measured the officer from head to foot, with a look of concentrated but suppressed fury, "you wouldn't _dare_ to do this--you wouldn't dare to fire into my canoe--besides, consider," he said, in a tone somewhat deprecating, "your bullet may go through her, and you would hardly do a feller the injury to make him lose the chance of a good cargo." "Then why provoke such a disaster by refusing to show us what is beneath those blankets?" "Because it's my pleasure to do so," fiercely retorted the other, "and I won't show them to no man." "Then it is my pleasure to fire," said Grantham. "The injury be on your own head, Desborough--one--two--" At this moment the sail was violently agitated--something, struggling for freedom, cast the blankets on one side, and presently the figure of a man stood upright in the bows of the canoe, and gazed around him with an air of stupid astonishment. "What," exclaimed Middlemore, retreating back a pace or two, in unfeigned surprise; "has that pistol started up, like the ghost in Hamlet, Ensign Paul Emilius Theophilus Arnoldi, of the United States Michigan Militia--a prisoner on his parole of honor? and yet attempting a clandestine departure from the country--how is this?"