it, “that he defied the devil, the world, and Bob Pentland.” The latter, however, was a very sore thorn in his side, and drove him from place to place, and from one haunt to another, until he began to despair of being able any longer to outwit him, or to find within the parish any spot at all suitable for distillation with which Pentland was not acquainted. In this state stood matters between them, when George fortunately discovered at the hip of Altnaveenan hill the natural grotto we have just sketched so briefly. Now, George was a man, as we have already hinted, of great fertility of resources; but there existed in the same parish another distiller who outstripped him in that farsighted cunning which is so necessary in misleading or circumventing such a sharp-scented old hound as Pentland. This was little Mickey M’Quade, a short-necked squat little fellow with bow legs, who might be said rather to creep in his motion than to walk. George and Mickey were intimate friends, independently of their joint antipathy against the gauger, and, truth to tell, much of the mortification and many of the defeats which Pentland experienced at George’s hands, were, _sub rosa_, to be attributed to Mickey. George was a distiller from none of the motives which generally actuate others of that class. He was in truth an analytic philosopher--a natural chemist never out of some new experiment--and we have reason to think might have been the Kane or Faraday or Dalton of his day, had he only received a scientific education. Not so honest Mickey, who never troubled his head about an experiment, but only thought of making a good running, and defeating the gauger. The first thing of course that George did, was to consult Mickey, and both accordingly took a walk up to the scene of their future operations. On examining it, and fully perceiving its advantages, it might well be said that the look of exultation and triumph which passed between them was not unworthy of their respective characters. “This will do,” said George. “Eh--don’t you think we’ll put our finger in Pentland’s eye yet?” Mickey spat sagaciously over his beard, and after a second glance gave one grave grin which spoke volumes. “It’ll do,” said he; “but there’s one point to be got over that maybe you didn’t think of; an’ you know that half a blink, half a point, is enough for Pentland.” “What is it?” “What do you intend to do with the smoke when the fire’s lit? There’ll be no keepin’ _that_ down. Let but Pentland see as much smoke risin’ as would come out of an ould woman’s dudeen, an’ he’d have us.” George started, and it was clear by the vexation and disappointment which were visible on his brow that unless this untoward circumstance could be managed, their whole plan was deranged, and the cave of no value. “What’s to be done?” he inquired of his cooler companion. “If we can’t get over this, we may bid good bye to it.”