"C'mon Sammy. We've got ye bang to rights," Sergeant Whelan said. "Ye can't deny it."

Sammy O'Brien shrugged and tried not to let any concern show on his face. "It's not a crime to be carryin' bottles around now, is it?" He pointed at the collection of stoppered bottles that were lined up on the sergeant's desk.

It is when they're filled with your poitín, Sammy boy."

"Sure it doesn't say poitín on the labels," Sammy retorted. "Just because I like a drink now an' then is no reason to be draggin' me in."

Sergeant Whelan folded his arms and frowned. Yes - Sammy was a well-known bootlegger, but he had a point. He could argue that the bottles contained legal spirits, and that might be enough to get him off. Sergeant Whelan needed proof. Proof! The sergeant smiled. "Just you wait there."

Sammy waited until the sergeant returned, bringing with him a tin plate and measure of black powder. "Wha's that?" Sammy asked.

"Gunpowder," Whelan replied. He set the plate and the powder out on his desk. "My granda told me how they used to test rum in the navy. Y'see, they would soak some gunpowder in the rum, and then see if it burnt. If it didn't, it wasn't proper rum." He poured a measure from one of Sammy's bottles over the powder and stirred the mixture around with a spoon. "Now, I know these," he pointed at the bottles, "are less than 100 degrees proof. Your poitín, on the other hand, is a lot more."

The policeman struck a match and held it to the mixture on the plate. There was a hiss, then a burst of orange flame as the powder ignited and burned brightly.

"There ye go," said Sergeant Whelan. "I think I've made my case."