“Never mind,” said Mickey; “I’ll manage it, and _do_ Pentland still.” “Ay, but how?” “It’s no matter. Let us not lose a minute in settin’ to work. Lave the other thing to me; an’ if I don’t account for the smoke without discoverin’ the entrance to the still, I’ll give you lave to crop the ears off my head.” George knew the cool but steady self-confidence for which Mickey was remarkable, and accordingly, without any further interrogatory, they both proceeded to follow up their plan of operations. In those times when distillation might be truly considered as almost universal, it was customary for farmers to build their out-houses with secret chambers and other requisite partitions necessary for carrying it on. Several of them had private stores built between false walls, the entrance to which was only known to a few, and many of them had what were called _Malt-steeps_ sunk in hidden recesses and hollow gables, for the purpose of steeping the barley, and afterwards of turning and airing it, until it was sufficiently hard to be kiln-dried and ground. From the mill it was usually conveyed to the still-house upon what were termed _Slipes_, a kind of car that was made without wheels, in order the more easily to pass through morasses and bogs which no wheeled vehicle could encounter. In the course of a month or so, George and Mickey, aided by their friends, had all the apparatus of keeve, hogshead, &c., together with still head and worm, set up and in full work. “And now, Mickey,” inquired his companion, “how will you manage about the smoke? for you know that the two worst informers against a private distiller, barrin’ a _stag_, is a smoke by day an’ a fire by night.” “I know that,” replied Mickey; “an’ a rousin’ smoke we’ll have, for fraid a little puff wouldn’t do us. Come, now, an’ I’ll show you.”