His douceur was
large enough to sweeten the tempers of all his colleagues, from
major-general down to sublieutenant, and so everyone was happy. As
they say in the Spanish countries, custumbre es custumbre.
My
firm bought immense quantities of old bronze guns, outdated field
pieces, from every European country, for their metal value. But there
was a stiff duty on armaments. Unless the guns could be made
technically innocuous before they left the bonded store at the railway
depot, the duty had to be paid, no matter how antiquated their
pattern. As it was impracticable to smash the muzzles of a large
consignment of heavy-calibre bronze guns within the cramped space of
the depot, we used to remove them to our own yards under Customs
supervision, which necessitated a special permit, to be obtained only
on formal written request, made to the Chief of Customs. That high
official did not sit at his desk in blinkers. His subordinates had
already apprised him days before the event that the fruit was ripe for
the plucking. And when our agents handed him personally the petition
for removing the guns, they took good care to pin to it another bit of
paper.
When
the permit had been issued, our biggest horse trucks, each drawn by a
double team of Styrian horses, would bring the bronze monsters to our
yards. To the boys of the neighbourhood it was as good as a pantomime
or Renzé's circus parade, for at the head of the procession
there rode a uniformed high Customs official with sword drawn, and on
either side of the long line of trucks strode with martial step the
suitably spaced Customs guards, all of course in uniform and with
side-arms. The rear was
