"My valise contains books principally, with some articles of wearing
apparel," said the professor, opening his grip.

The customs officer looked with suspicion on the whole outfit, and
evidently did not like the tone of the American. He seemed to be
treating the customs department in a light and airy manner, and the
officer was too much impressed by the dignity of his position not to
resent flippancy. Besides, there were rumors of Fenian invasion in the
air, and the officer resolved that no Fenian should get into the
country without paying duty.

"Where are you going with this tent?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps you can tell us. I don't know the
country about here. Say, Stilly, I'm off uptown to attend to the
emptiness in this stone utensil. I've been empty too often myself not
to sympathize with its condition. You wrestle this matter out about the
tent. You know the ways of the country, whereas I don't."

It was perhaps as well that Yates left negotiations in the hands of his
friend. He was quick enough to see that he made no headway with the
officer, but rather the opposite. He slung the jar ostentatiously over
his shoulder, to the evident discomfort of the professor, and marched
up the hill to the nearest tavern, whistling one of the lately popular
war tunes.

"Now," he said to the barkeeper, placing the jar tenderly on the bar,
"fill that up to the nozzle with the best rye you have. Fill it with
the old familiar juice, as the late poet Omar saith."