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<h2> VOLUME 4. </h2><h2> CHAPTER XV </h2> I am convinced that Mr. Cooke possessed at least some of the qualities of a great general. In certain campaigns of past centuries, and even of this, it has been hero-worship that impelled the rank and file rather than any high sympathy with the cause they were striving for. And so it was with us that morning. Our commander was everywhere at once, encouraging us to work, and holding over us in impressive language the awful alternative of capture. For he had the art, in a high degree, of inoculating his followers with the spirit which animated him; and shortly, to my great surprise, I found myself working as though my life depended on it. I certainly did not care very much whether the Celebrity was captured or not, and yet, with the prospect of getting him over the border, I had not thought of breakfast. Farrar had a natural inclination for work of this sort, but even he was infused somewhat with the contagious haste and enthusiasm which filled the air; and together we folded the tents with astonishing despatch and rowed them out to the Maria, Mr. Cooke having gone to his knees in the water to shove the boat off. “What are we doing this for?” said Farrar to me, as we hoisted the sail. We both laughed. “I have just been asking myself that question,” I replied. “You are a nice district attorney, Crocker,” he said. “You have made a most proper and equitable decision in giving your consent to Allen's escape. Doesn't your conscience smart?” “Not unbearably. I'll tell you what, Farrar,” said I, “the truth is, that this fellow never embezzled so much as a ten-cent piece. He isn't guilty: he isn't the man.” “Isn't the man?” repeated Farrar. “No,” I answered; “it's a long tale, and no time to tell it now. But he is really, as he claims to be, the author of all those detestable books we have been hearing so much of.” “The deuce he is!” exclaimed Farrar, dropping the stopper he was tying. “Did he write The Sybarites?” “Yes, sir; he wrote The Sybarites, and all the rest of that trash.” “He's the fellow that maintains a man ought to marry a girl after he has become engaged to her.” “Exactly,” I said, smiling at his way of putting it. “Preaches constancy to all men, but doesn't object to stealing.” I laughed. “You're badly mixed,” I explained. “I told you he never stole anything. He was only ass enough to take the man's name who is the living image of him. And the other man took the bonds.” “Oh, come now,” said he, “tell me something improbable while you are about it.” “It's true,” I replied, repressing my mirth; “true as the tale of Timothy. I knew him when he was a mere boy. But I don't give you that as a proof, for he might have become all things to all men since. Ask Miss Trevor; or Miss Thorn; she knows the other man, the bicycle man, and has seen them both together.” “Where, in India? Was one standing on the ground looking at his double go to heaven? Or was it at one of those drawing-room shows where a medium holds conversation with your soul, while your body sleeps on the lounge? By George, Crocker, I thought you were a sensible man.” No wonder I got angry. But I might have come at some proper estimation of Farrar's incredulity by that time. “I suppose you wouldn't take a lady's word,” I growled. “Not for that,” he said, busy again with the sail stops; “nor St. Chrysostom's, were he to come here and vouch for it. It is too damned improbable.” “Stranger things than that have happened,” I retorted, fuming. “Not to any of us,” he said. Presently he added, chuckling: “He'd better not get into the clutches of that man Drew.” “What do you mean?” I demanded. Farrar was exasperating at times. “Drew will wind those handcuffs on him like tourniquets,” he laughed. There seemed to be something behind this remark, but before I could inquire into it we were interrupted by Mr. Cooke, who was standing on the beach, swearing and gesticulating for the boat. “I trust,” said Farrar, as we rowed ashore, “that this blind excitement will continue, and that we shall have the extreme pleasure of setting down our friend in Her Majesty's dominions with a yachting-suit and a ham sandwich.” We sat down to a hasty breakfast, in the middle of which the Celebrity arrived. His appearance was unexceptionable, but his heavy jaw was set in a manner which should have warned Mr. Cooke not to trifle with him. “Sit down, old man, and take a bite before we start for Canada,” said my client. The Celebrity walked up to him. “Mr. Cooke,” he began in a menacing tone, “it is high time this nonsense was ended. I am tired of being made a buffoon of for your party. For your gratification I have spent a sleepless night in those cold, damp woods; and I warn you that practical joking can be carried too far. I will not go to Canada, and I insist that you sail me back to Asquith.” Mr. Cooke winked significantly in our direction and tapped his head. “I don't wonder you're a little upset, old man,” he said, humoringly patting him; “but sit down for a bite of something, and you'll see things differently.” “I've had my breakfast,” he said, taking out a cigarette. Then Mr. Trevor got up. “He demands, sir, to be delivered over to the authorities,” said he, “and you have no right to refuse him. I protest strongly.” “And you can protest all you damn please,” retorted my client; “this isn't the Ohio State Senate. Do you know where I would put you, Mr. Trevor? Do you know where you ought to be? In a hencoop, sir, if I had one here. In a hen-coop. What would you do if a man who had gone a little out of his mind asked you for a gun to shoot himself with? Give it him, I suppose. But I put Mr. Allen ashore in Canada, with the funds to get off with, and then my duty's done.” This speech, as Mr. Cooke had no doubt confidently hoped, threw the senator into a frenzy of wrath. “The day will come, sir,” he shouted, shaking his fist at my client, “the day will come when you will rue this bitterly.” “Don't get off any of your oratorical frills on me,” replied Mr. Cooke, contemptuously; “you ought to be tied and muzzled.” Mr. Trevor was white with anger. “I, for one, will not go to Canada,” he cried. “You'll stay here and starve, then,” said Mr. Cooke; “damned little I care.” Mr. Trevor turned to Farrar, who was biting his lip. “Mr. Farrar, I know you to be a rising young man of sound principles, and Mr. Crocker likewise. You are the only ones who can sail. Have you reflected that you are about to ruin your careers?” “We are prepared to take the chances, I think,” said Farrar. Mr. Cooke looked us over, proudly and gratefully, as much as to say that while he lived we should not lack the necessities of life. At nine we embarked, the Celebrity and Mr. Trevor for the same reason that the animals took to the ark,—because they had to. There was a spanking breeze in the west-northwest, and a clear sky, a day of days for a sail. Mr. Cooke produced a map, which Farrar and I consulted, and without much trouble we hit upon a quiet place to land on the Canadian side. Our course was north-northwest, and therefore the wind enabled us to hold it without much trouble. Bear Island is situated some eighteen miles from shore, and about equidistant between Asquith and Far Harbor, which latter we had to pass on our way northward. Although a brisk sea was on, the wind had been steady from that quarter all night, and the motion was uniform. The Maria was an excellent sea-boat. There was no indication, therefore, of the return of that malady which had been so prevalent on the passage to Bear Island. Mr. Cooke had never felt better, and looked every inch a sea-captain in his natty yachting-suit. He had acquired a tan on the island; and, as is eminently proper on a boat, he affected nautical manners and nautical ways. But his vernacular savored so hopelessly of the track and stall that he had been able to acquire no mastery over the art of marine invective. And he possessed not so much as one maritime oath. As soon as we had swung clear of the cove he made for the weather stays, where he assumed a posture not unlike that in the famous picture of Farragut ascending Mobile Bay. His leather case was swung over his shoulder, and with his glasses he swept the lake in search of the Scimitar and other vessels of a like unamiable character. Although my client could have told you, offhand, Jackstraw's last mile in a bicycle sulky, his notion of the Scimitar's speed was as vague as his knowledge of seamanship. And when I informed him that in all probability she had already passed the light on Far Harbor reef, some nine miles this side of the Far Harbor police station, he went into an inordinate state of excitement. Mr. Cooke was, indeed, that day the embodiment of an unselfish if misdirected zeal. He was following the dictates of both heart and conscience in his endeavor to rescue his guest from the law; and true zeal is invariably contagious. What but such could have commanded the unremitting labors of that morning? Farrar himself had done three men's work before breakfast, and it was, in great part, owing to him that we were now leaving the island behind us. He was sailing the Maria that day as she will never be sailed again: her lee gunwale awash, and a wake like a surveyor's line behind her. More than once I called to mind his facetious observation about Mr. Drew, and wondered if he knew more than he had said about the detective. Once in the open, the Maria showed but small consideration for her passengers, for she went through the seas rather than over them. And Mr. Cooke, manfully keeping his station on the weather bow, likewise went through the seas. No argument could induce him to leave the post he had thus heroically chosen, which was one of honor rather than utility, for the lake was as vacant of sails as the day that Father Marquette (or some one else) first beheld it. Under such circumstances ease must be considered as only a relative term; and the accommodations of the Maria afforded but two comfortable spots,—the cabin, and the lea aft of the cabin bulkhead. This being the case, the somewhat peculiar internal relations of the party decided its grouping. I know of no worse place than a small yacht, or than a large one for that matter, for uncongenial people. The Four betook themselves to the cabin, which was fortunately large, and made life bearable with a game of cards; while Mrs. Cooke, whose adaptability and sense I had come greatly to, admire, contented herself with a corner and a book. The ungrateful cause of the expedition himself occupied another corner. I caught sight of him through the cabin skylight, and the silver pencil he was holding over his note-book showed unmistakable marks of teeth. Outside, Mr. Trevor, his face wearing an immutable expression of defiance for the wickedness surrounding him, had placed his daughter for safe-keeping between himself and the only other reliable character on board,—the refrigerator. But Miss Thorn appeared in a blue mackintosh and a pair of heavy yachting-boots, courting rather than avoiding a drenching. Even a mackintosh is becoming to some women. All morning she sat behind Mr. Cooke, on the rise of the cabin, her back against the mast and her hair flying in the wind, and I, for one, was not sorry the Celebrity had given us this excuse for a sail. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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