It was, accurately as I can remember, half after noon when Mr. Cooke
first caught the smoke over the point, for the sun was very high: at two
our fate had been decided. I have already tried to describe a part of
what took place in that hour and a half, although even now I cannot get
it all straight in my mind. Races, when a great deal is at stake,
are more or less chaotic: a close four miles in a college eight is
a succession of blurs with lucid but irrelevant intervals. The weary
months of hard work are forgotten, and you are quite as apt to think
of your first velocipede, or of the pie that is awaiting you in the
boathouse, as of victory and defeat. And a yacht race, with a pair of
rivals on your beam, is very much the same.
As I sat with my feet dangling over the washboard, I reflected, once or
twice, that we were engaged in a race. All I had to do was to twist my
head in order to make sure of it. I also reflected, I believe, that I
was in the position of a man who has bet all he owns, with large odds
on losing either way. But on the whole I was occupied with more trivial
matters a letter I had forgotten to write about a month's rent, a client
whose summer address I had mislaid. The sun was burning my neck behind
when a whistle aroused me to the realization that the tug was no longer
a toy boat dancing in the distance, but a stern fact but two miles away.
There could be no mistake now, for I saw the white steam of the signal
against the smoke.
I slid down and went into the cabin. The Celebrity was in the corner by
the companionway, with his head on the cushions and a book in his hand.
And forward, under the low deck beams beyond the skylight, I beheld the
crouching figure of my client. He had stripped off his coat and was busy
at some task on the floor.
“They're whistling for us to stop,” I said to him.
“How near are they, old man?” he asked, without looking up. The
perspiration was streaming down his face, and he held a brace and bit in
his hand. Under him was the trap-door which gave access to the ballast
below, and through this he had bored a neat hole. The yellow chips were
still on his clothes.
“They're not two miles away,” I answered. “But what in mystery are you
doing there?”
But he only laid a finger beside his nose and bestowed a wink in my
direction. Then he took some ashes from his cigar, wetted his finger,
and thus ingeniously removed all appearance of newness from the hole
he had made, carefully cleaning up the chips and putting them in his
pocket. Finally he concealed the brace and bit and opened the trap,
disclosing the rough stones of the ballast. I watched him in amazement
as he tore a mattress from an adjoining bunk and forced it through the
opening, spreading it fore and aft over the stones.
“Now,” he said, regaining his feet and surveying the whole with
undisguised satisfaction, “he'll be as safe there as in my new family
vault.”
“But,” I began, a light dawning upon me.
“Allen, old man,” said Mr. Cooke, “come here.”
The Celebrity laid down his book and looked up: my client was putting on
his coat.
“Come here, old man,” he repeated.
And he actually came. But he stopped when he caught sight of the open
trap and of the mattress beneath it.
“How will that suit you?” asked Mr. Cooke, smiling broadly as he wiped
his face with an embroidered handkerchief.
The Celebrity looked at the mattress, then at me, and lastly at Mr.
Cooke. His face was a study:
“And--And you think I am going to get in there?” he said, his voice
shaking.
My client fell back a step.
“Why not?” he demanded. “It's about your size, comfortable, and all the
air you want” (here Mr. Cooke stuck his finger through the bit hole).
“Damn me, if I were in your fix, I wouldn't stop at a kennel.”
“Then you're cursed badly mistaken,” said the Celebrity, going back to
his corner; “I'm tired of being made an ass of for you and your party.”
“An ass!” exclaimed my client, in proper indignation.
“Yes, an ass,” said the Celebrity. And he resumed his book.
It would seem that a student of human nature, such as every successful
writer should be, might by this time have arrived at some conception of
my client's character, simple as it was, and have learned to overlook
the slight peculiarity in his mode of expressing himself. But here the
Celebrity fell short, if my client's emotions were not pitched in the
same key as those of other people, who shall say that his heart was not
as large or his sympathies as wide as many another philanthropist?
But Mr. Cooke was an optimist, and as such disposed to look at the best
side of his friends and ignore the worst; if, indeed, he perceived their
faults at all. It was plain to me, even now, that he did not comprehend
the Celebrity's attitude. That his guest should reject the one hope of
escape left him was, according to Mr. Cooke, only to be accounted for by
a loss of mental balance. Nevertheless, his disappointment was keen. He
let down the door and slowly led the way out of the cabin. The whistle
sounded shrilly in our ears.
Mr. Cooke sat down and drew a wallet from his pocket. He began to count
the bills, and, as if by common consent, the Four followed suit. It
was a task which occupied some minutes, and when completed my client
produced a morocco note-book and a pencil. He glanced interrogatively at
the man nearest him.
“Three hundred and fifty.”
Mr. Cooke put it down. It was entirely a matter of course. What else
was there to be done? And when he had gone the round of his followers he
turned to Farrar and me.
“How much are you fellows equal to?” he asked.
I believe he did it because he felt we should resent being left out: and
so we should have. Mr. Cooke's instincts were delicate.
We told him. Then he paused, his pencil in the air, and his eyes
doubtfully fixed on the senator. For all this time Mr. Trevor had
been fidgeting in his seat; but now he opened his long coat, button by
button, and thrust his hand inside the flap. Oh, Falstaff!
“Father, father!” exclaimed Miss Trevor. But her tongue was in her
cheek.
I have heard it stated that if a thoroughly righteous man were cast
away with ninety and nine ruffians, each of the ruffians would gain
one-one-hundredth in virtue, whilst the righteous man would sink to
their new level. I am not able to say how much better Mr. Cooke's party
was for Mr. Trevor's company, but the senator seemed to realize that
something serious had happened to him, for his voice was not altogether
steady as he pronounced the amount of his contribution.
“Trevor,” cried Mr. Cooke, with great fervor, “I take it all back.
You're a true, public-spirited old sport.”
But the senator had not yet reached that extreme of degradation where it
is pleasurable to be congratulated on wickedness.
My client added up the figures and rubbed his hands. I regret to
say that the aggregate would have bought up three small police
organizations, body and soul.
“Pull up, Farrar, old man,” he shouted.
Farrar released the wheel and threw the Maria into the wind. With the
sail cracking and the big boom dodging over our heads, we watched the
tug as she drew nearer and nearer, until we could hear the loud beating
of her engines. On one side some men were making ready to lower a boat,
and then a conspicuous figure in blue stood out by the davits. Then came
the faint tinkle of a bell, and the H Sinclair, of Far Harbor, glided up
and thrashed the water scarce a biscuit-throw away.
“Hello, there!” the man in uniform called out. It was Captain McCann,
chief of the Far Harbor police.
Mr. Cooke waved his cigar politely.
“Is that Mr. Cooke's yacht, the Maria?
“The same,” said Mr. Cooke.
“I'm fearing I'll have to come aboard you, Mr. Cooke.”
“All right, old man, glad to have you,” said my client.
This brought a smile to McCann's face as he got into his boat. We were
all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of
the cabin door. I had time to note that he was pale, and no more: I must
have been pale myself. A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria's
stern.
“It's not me that likes to interfere with a gent's pleasure party, but
business is business,” said he, as he climbed aboard.
My client's hospitality was oriental.
“Make yourself at home, old man,” he said, a box of his largest and
blackest cigars in his hand. And these he advanced towards McCann before
the knot was tied in the painter.
Then a wave of self-reproach swept over me. Was it possible that I, like
Mr. Trevor, had been deprived of all the morals I had ever possessed?
Could it be that the district attorney was looking calmly on while Mr.
Cooke wilfully corrupted the Far Harbor chief-of-police? As agonizing a
minute as I ever had in my life was that which it took McCann to survey
those cigars. His broad features became broader still, as a huge, red
hand was reached out. I saw it close lingeringly over the box, and then
Mr. Cooke had struck a match. The chief stepped over the washboard onto
the handsome turkey-red cushions on the seats, and thus he came face to
face with me.
“Holy fathers!” he exclaimed. “Is it you who are here, Mr. Crocker?” And
he pulled off his cap.
“No other, McCann,” said I, with what I believe was a most pitiful
attempt at braggadocio.
McCann began to puff at his cigar. Clouds of smoke came out of his face
and floated down the wind. He was so visibly embarrassed that I gained a
little courage.
“And what brings you here?” I demanded.
He scrutinized me in perplexity.
“I think you're guessing, sir.”
“Never a guess, McCann. You'll have to explain yourself.”
McCann had once had a wholesome respect for me. But it looked now as if
the bottom was dropping out of it.
“Sure, Mr. Crocker,” he said, “what would you be doing in such company
as I'm hunting for? Can it be that ye're helping to lift a criminal over
the border?”
“McCann,” I asked sternly, “what have you had on the tug?”
Force of habit proved too much for the man. He went back to the
apologetic.
“Never a drop, Mr. Crocker. Upon me soul!”
This reminded Mr. Cooke of something (be it recorded) that he had for
once forgotten. He lifted up the top of the refrigerator. The chief's
eye followed him. But I was not going to permit this.
“Now, McCann,” I commenced again, “if you will state your business here,
if you have any, I shall be obliged. You are delaying Mr. Cooke.”
The chief was seized with a nervous tremor. I think we were a pair in
that, only I managed to keep mine, under. When it came to the point,
and any bribing was to be done, I had hit upon a course. Self-respect
demanded a dignity on my part. With a painful indecision McCann pulled
a paper from his pocket which I saw was a warrant. And he dropped his
cigar. Mr. Cooke was quick to give him another.
“Ye come from Bear Island, Mr. Crocker?” he inquired.
I replied in the affirmative.
“I hope it's news I'm telling you,” he said soberly; “I'm hoping it's
news when I say that I'm here for Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen,--that's the
gentleman's name. He's after taking a hundred thousand dollars away from
Boston.” Then he turned to Mr. Cooke. “The gentleman was aboard your
boat, sir, when you left that country place of yours,--what d'ye call
it?--Mohair? Thank you, sir.” And he wiped the water from his brow. “And
they're telling me he was on Bear Island with ye? Sure, sir, and I can't
see why a gentleman of your standing would be wanting to get him over
the border. But I must do my duty. Begging your pardon, Mr. Crocker,” he
added, with a bow to me.
“Certainly, McCann,” I said.
For a space there was only the bumping and straining of the yacht and
the swish of the water against her sides. Then the chief spoke again.
“It will be saving you both trouble and inconvenience, Mr. Crocker, if
you give him up, sir.”
What did the man mean? Why in the name of the law didn't he make a
move? I was conscious that my client was fumbling in his clothes for the
wallet; that he had muttered an invitation for the chief to go inside.
McCann smoked uneasily.
“I don't want to search the boat, sir.”
At these words we all turned with one accord towards the cabin. I felt
Farrar gripping my arm tightly from behind.
The Celebrity had disappeared!
It was Mr. Cooke who spoke.
“Search the boat!” he said, something between a laugh and a cry.
“Yes, sir,” the chief repeated firmly. “It's sorry I am to do it, with
Mr. Crocker here, too.”
I have always maintained that nature had endowed my client with rare
gifts; and the ease with which he now assumed a part thus unexpectedly
thrust upon him, as well as the assurance with which he carried it out,
goes far to prove it.
“If there's anything in your line aboard, chief,” he said blandly, “help
yourself!”
Some of us laughed. I thought things a little too close to be funny.
Since the Celebrity had lost his nerve and betaken himself to the place
of concealment Mr. Cooke had prepared for him, the whole composition of
the affair was changed. Before, if McCann had arrested the ostensible
Mr. Allen, my word, added to fifty dollars from my client, would
probably have been sufficient. Should he be found now, no district
attorney on the face of the earth could induce the chief to believe that
he was any other than the real criminal; nor would any bribe be large
enough to compensate McCann for the consequences of losing so important
a prisoner. There was nothing now but to carry it off with a high hand.
McCann got up.
“Be your lave, Mr. Crocker,” he said.
“Never you mind me, McCann,” I replied, “but you do what is right.”
With that he began his search. It might have been ludicrous if I had
had any desire to laugh, for the chief wore the gingerly air of a man
looking for a rattlesnake which has to be got somehow. And my client
assisted at the inspection with all the graces of a dancing-master.
McCann poked into the forward lockers where we kept the
stores,--dropping the iron lid within an inch of his toe,--and the
clothing-lockers and the sail-lockers. He reached under the bunks, and
drew out his hand again quickly, as though he expected to be bitten.
And at last he stood by the trap with the hole in it, under which the
Celebrity lay prostrate. I could hear my own breathing. But Mr. Cooke
had his wits about him still, and at this critical juncture he gave
McCann a thump on the back which nearly carried him off his feet.
“They say the mast is hollow, old man,” he suggested.
“Be jabers, Mr. Cooke,” said McCann, “and I'm beginning to think it is!
“He took off his cap and scratched his head.
“Well, McCann, I hope you're contented,” I said.
“Mr. Crocker,” said he, “and it's that thankful I am for you that the
gent ain't here. But with him cutting high finks up at Mr. Cooke's
house with a valet, and him coming on the yacht with yese, and the whole
country in that state about him, begorra,” said McCann, “and it's domned
strange! Maybe it's swimmin' in the water he is!”
The whole party had followed the search, and at this speech of the
chief's our nervous tension became suddenly relaxed. Most of us sat down
to laugh.
“I'm asking no questions, Mr. Crocker, ye'll take notice,” he remarked,
his voice full of reproachful meaning.
“McCann,” said I, “you come outside. I want to speak to you.”
He followed me out.
“Now,” I went on, “you know me pretty well” (he nodded doubtfully), “and
if I give you my word that Charles Wrexell Allen is not on this yacht,
and never has been, is that sufficient?”
“Is it the truth you're saying, sir?”
I assured him that it was.
“Then where is he, Mr. Crocker?”
“God only knows!” I replied, with fervor. “I don't, McCann.”
The chief was satisfied. He went back into the cabin, and Mr. Cooke, in
the exuberance of his joy, produced champagne. McCann had heard of my
client and of his luxurious country place, and moreover it was the first
time he had ever been on a yellow-plush yacht. He tarried. He drank Mr.
Cooke's health and looked around him in wonder and awe, and his remarks
were worthy of record. These sayings and the thought of the author of
The Sybarites stifling below with his mouth to an auger-hole kept us in
a continual state of merriment. And at last our visitor rose to go.
As he was stepping over the side, Mr. Cooke laid hold of a brass button
and pressed a handful of the black cigars upon him.
“My regards to the detective, old man,” said he.
McCann stared.
“My regards to Drew,” my client insisted.
“Oh!” said McCann, his face lighting up, “him with the whiskers, what
came from Bear Island in a cat-boat. Sure, he wasn't no detective, sir.”
“What was he? A police commissioner?”
“Mr. Cooke,” said McCann, disdainfully, as he got into his boat, “he
wasn't nothing but a prospector doing the lake for one of them summer
hotel companies.”