"Answer as best you can. Use your wits, man. I can stay no longer."
And Peter went off to the apothecary for his pretexted drugs.

Within an hour of his going came an officer of the Secretary's to
Nuttall's miserable hovel. The seller of the boat had - as by law
required since the coming of the rebels-convict - duly reported
the sale at the Secretary's office, so that he might obtain the
reimbursement of the ten-pound surety into which every keeper of a
small boat was compelled to enter. The Secretary's office postponed
this reimbursement until it should have obtained confirmation of
the transaction.

"We are informed that you have bought a wherry from Mr. Robert
Farrell," said the officer.

"That is so," said Nuttall, who conceived that for him this was
the end of the world.

"You are in no haste, it seems, to declare the same at the
Secretary's office." The emissary had a proper bureaucratic
haughtiness.

Nuttall's weak eyes blinked at a redoubled rate.

"To... to declare it?"

"Ye know it's the law."

"I... I didn't, may it please you."