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<h2> CHAPTER XII </h2> The Four received Mr. Cooke's plan for the Celebrity's escape to Canada with enthusiastic acclamation, and as the one thing lacking to make the Bear Island trip a complete success. The Celebrity was hailed with the reverence due to the man who puts up the ring-money in a prize-fight. He was accorded, too, a certain amount of respect as a defaulter, which the Four would have denied him as an author, for I am inclined to the belief that the discovery of his literary profession would have lowered him rather than otherwise in their eyes. My client was naturally anxious to get under way at once for the Canadian border, but was overruled in this by his henchmen, who demanded something to eat. We sat down to an impromptu meal, which was an odd affair indeed. Mrs. Cooke maintained her usual serenity, but said little, while Miss Trevor and I had many a mirthful encounter at the thought of the turn matters had taken. At the other end of the cloth were Mr. Cooke and the Four, in wonderful spirits and unimpaired appetite, and in their midst sat the Celebrity, likewise in wonderful spirits. His behavior now and again elicited a loud grunt of disapproval from Mr. Trevor, who was plying his knife and fork in a manner emblematic of his state of mind. Mr. Allen was laughing and joking airily with Mr. Cooke and the guests, denying, but not resenting, their accusations with all the sang froid of a hardened criminal. He did not care particularly to go to Canada, he said. Why should he, when he was innocent? But, if Mr. Cooke insisted, he would enjoy seeing that part of the lake and the Canadian side. Afterwards I perceived Miss Thorn down by the brookside, washing dishes. Her sleeves were drawn back to the elbow, and a dainty white apron covered her blue skirt, while the wind from the lake had disentangled errant wisps of her hair. I stood on the brink above, secure, as I thought, from observation, when she chanced to look up and spied me. “Mr. Crocker,” she called, “would you like to make yourself useful?” I was decidedly embarrassed. Her manner was as frank and unconstrained as though I had not been shunning her for weeks past. “If such a thing is possible,” I replied. “Do you know a dish-cloth when you see one?” I was doubtful. But I procured the cloth from Miss Trevor and returned. There was an air about Miss Thorn that was new to me. “What an uncompromising man you are, Mr. Crocker,” she said to me. “Once a person is unfortunate enough to come under the ban of your disapproval you have nothing whatever to do with them. Now it seems that I have given you offence in some way. Is it not so?” “You magnify my importance,” I said. “No temporizing, Mr. Crocker,” she went on, as though she meant to be obeyed; “sit down there, and let's have it out. I like you too well to quarrel with you.” There was no resisting such a command, and I threw myself on the pebbles at her feet. “I thought we were going to be great friends,” she said. “You and Mr. Farrar were so kind to me on the night of my arrival, and we had such fun watching the dance together.” “I confess I thought so, too. But you expressed opinions then that I shared. You have since changed your mind, for some unaccountable reason.” She paused in her polishing, a shining dish in her hand, and looked down at me with something between a laugh and a frown. “I suppose you have never regretted speaking hastily,” she said. “Many a time,” I returned, warming; “but if I ever thought a judgment measured and distilled, it was your judgment of the Celebrity.” “Does the study of law eliminate humanity?” she asked, with a mock curtsey. “The deliberate sentences are sometimes the unjust ones, and men who are hung by weighed wisdom are often the innocent.” “That is all very well in cases of doubt. But here you have the evidences of wrong-doing directly before you.” Three dishes were taken up, dried, and put down before she answered me. I threw pebbles into the brook, and wished I had held my tongue. “What evidence?” inquired she. “Well,” said I, “I must finish, I suppose. I had a notion you knew of what I inferred. First, let me say that I have no desire to prejudice you against a person whom you admire.” “Impossible.” Something in her tone made me look up. “Very good, then,” I answered. “I, for one, can have no use for a man who devotes himself to a girl long enough to win her affections, and then deserts her with as little compunction as a dog does a rat it has shaken. And that is how your Celebrity treated Miss Trevor.” “But Miss Trevor has recovered, I believe,” said Miss Thorn. I began to feel a deep, but helpless, insecurity. “Happily, yes,” I assented. “Thanks to an excellent physician.” A smile twitched the corners of her mouth, as though she enjoyed my discomfiture. I remarked for the fiftieth time how strong her face was, with its generous lines and clearly moulded features. And a suspicion entered my soul. “At any rate,” I said, with a laugh, “the Celebrity has got himself into no end of a predicament now. He may go back to New York in custody.” “I thought you incapable of resentment, Mr. Crocker. How mean of you to deny him!” “It can do no harm,” I answered; “a little lesson in the dangers of incognito may be salutary. I wish it were a little lesson in the dangers of something else.” The color mounted to her face as she resumed her occupation. “I am afraid you are a very wicked man,” she said. Before I could reply there came a scuffling sound from the bank above us, and the snapping of branches and twigs. It was Mr. Cooke. His descent, the personal conduction of which he lost half-way down, was irregular and spasmodic, and a rude concussion at the bottom knocked off a choice bit of profanity which was balanced on the tip of his tongue. “Tobogganing is a little out of season,” said his niece, laughing heartily. Mr. Cooke brushed himself off, picked up the glasses which he had dropped in his flight and pushed them into my hands. Then he pointed lakeward with bulging eyes. “Crocker, old man,” he said in a loud whisper, “they tell me that is an Asquith cat-boat.” I followed his finger and saw for the first time a sail-boat headed for the island, then about two miles off shore. I raised the glasses. “Yes,” I said, “the Scimitar.” “That's what Farrar said,” cried he. “And what about it?” I asked. “What about it?” he ejaculated. “Why, it's a detective come for Allen. I knew sure as hell if they got as far as Asquith they wouldn't stop there. And that's the fastest sail-boat he could hire there, isn't it?” I replied that it was. He seized me by the shoulder and began dragging me up the bank. “What are you going to do?” I cried, shaking myself loose. “We've got to get on the Maria and run for it,” he panted. “There is no time to be lost.” He had reached the top of the bank and was running towards the group at the tents. And he actually infused me with some of his red-hot enthusiasm, for I hastened after him. “But you can't begin to get the Maria out before they will be in here,” I shouted. He stopped short, gazed at the approaching boat, and then at me. “Is that so?” “Yes, of course,” said I, “they will be here in ten minutes.” The Celebrity stood in the midst of the excited Four. His hair was parted precisely, and he had induced a monocle to remain in his eye long enough to examine the Scimitar, his nose at the critical elevation. This unruffled exterior made a deep impression on the Four. Was the Celebrity not undergoing the crucial test of a true sport? He was an example alike to criminals and philosophers. Mr. Cooke hurried into the group, which divided respectfully for him, and grasped the Celebrity by the hand. “Something else has got to be done, old man,” he said, in a voice which shook with emotion; “they'll be on us before we can get the Maria out.” Farrar, who was nailing a rustic bench near by, straightened up at this, his lip curling with a desire to laugh. The Celebrity laid his hand on my client's shoulder. “Cooke,” said he, “I'm deeply grateful for all the trouble you wish to take, and for the solicitude you have shown. But let things be. I'll come out of it all right.” “Never,” cried Cooke, looking proudly around the Four as some Highland chief might have surveyed a faithful clan. “I'd a damned sight rather go to jail myself.” “A damned sight,” echoed the Four in unison. “I insist, Cooke,” said the Celebrity, taking out his eyeglass and tapping Mr. Cooke's purple necktie, “I insist that you drop this business. I repeat my thanks to you and these gentlemen for the friendship they have shown, but say again that I am as innocent of this crime as a baby.” Mr. Cooke paid no attention to this speech. His face became radiant. “Didn't any of you fellows strike a cave, or a hollow tree, or something of that sort, knocking around this morning?” One man slapped his knee. “The very place,” he cried. “I fell into it,” and he showed a rent in his trousers corroboratively. “It's big enough to hold twenty of Allen, and the detective doesn't live that could find it.” “Hustle him off, quick,” said Mr. Cooke. The mandate was obeyed as literally as though Robin Hood himself had given it. The Celebrity disappeared into the forest, carried rather than urged towards his destined place of confinement. The commotion had brought Mr. Trevor to the spot. He caught sight of the Celebrity's back between the trees, then he looked at the cat-boat entering the cove, a man in the stern preparing to pull in the tender. He intercepted Mr. Cooke on his way to the beach. “What have you done with Mr. Allen?” he asked, in a menacing voice. “Good God,” said Mr. Cooke, whose contempt for Mr. Trevor was now infinite, “you talk as if I were the governor of the state. What the devil could I do with him?” “I will have no evasion,” replied Mr. Trevor, taking an imposing posture in front of him. “You are trying to defeat the ends of justice by assisting a dangerous criminal to escape. I have warned you, sir, and warn you again of the consequences of your meditated crime, and I give you my word I will do all in my power to frustrate it.” Mr. Cooke dug his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Here was a complication he had not looked for. The Scimitar lay at anchor with her sail down, and two men were coming ashore in the tender. Mr. Cooke's attitude being that of a man who reconsiders a rash resolve, Mr. Trevor was emboldened to say in a moderated tone: “You were carried away by your generosity, Mr. Cooke. I was sure when you took time to think you would see it in another light.” Mr. Cooke started off for the place where the boat had grounded. I did not catch his reply, and probably should not have written it here if I had. The senator looked as if he had been sand-bagged. The two men jumped out of the boat and hauled it up. Mr. Cooke waved an easy salute to one, whom I recognized as the big boatman from Asquith, familiarly known as Captain Jay. He owned the Scimitar and several smaller boats. The captain went through the pantomime of an introduction between Mr. Cooke and the other, whom my client shook warmly by the hand, and presently all three came towards us. Mr. Cooke led them to a bar he had improvised by the brook. A pool served the office of refrigerator, and Mr. Cooke had devised an ingenious but complicated arrangement of strings and labels which enabled him to extract any bottle or set of bottles without having to bare his arm and pull out the lot. Farrar and I responded to the call he had given, and went down to assist in the entertainment. My client, with his back to us, was busy manipulating the strings. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let me make you acquainted with Mr. Drew. You all know the captain.” Had I not suspected Mr. Drew's profession, I think I should not have remarked that he gave each of us a keen look as he raised his head. He had reddish-brown hair, and a pair of bushy red whiskers, each of which tapered to a long point. He was broad in the shoulders, and the clothes he wore rather enhanced this breadth. His suit was gray and almost new, the trousers perceptibly bagging at the knee, and he had a felt hat, a necktie of the white and flowery pattern, and square-toed “Congress” boots. In short, he was a decidedly ordinary looking person; you would meet a hundred like him in the streets of Far Harbor and Beaverton. He might have been a prosperous business man in either of those towns,—a comfortable lumber merchant or mine owner. And he had chosen just the get-up I should have picked for detective work in that region. He had a pleasant eye and a very fetching and hearty manner. But his long whiskers troubled me especially. I kept wondering if they were real. “The captain is sailing Mr. Drew over to Far Harbor,” explained Mr. Cooke, “and they have put in here for the night.” Mr. Drew was plainly not an amateur, for he volunteered nothing further than this. The necessary bottles having been produced, Mr. Cooke held up his glass and turned to the stranger. “Welcome to our party, old man,” said he. Mr. Drew drained his glass and complimented Mr. Cooke on the brand,—a sure key to my client's heart. Whereupon he seated himself between Mr. Drew and the captain and began a discourse on the subject of his own cellar, on which he talked for nearly an hour. His only pauses were for the worthy purpose of filling the detective's or the captain's glass, and these he watched with a hospitable solicitude. The captain had the advantage, three to one, and I made no doubt his employer bitterly regretted not having a boatman whose principles were more strict. At the end of the hour Captain Jay, who by nature was inclined to be taciturn and crabbed, waxed loquacious and even jovial. He sang us the songs he had learned in the winter lumber-camps, which Mr. Cooke never failed to encore to the echo. My client vowed he had not spent a pleasanter afternoon for years. He plied the captain with cigars, and explained to him the mystery of the strings and labels; and the captain experimented until he had broken some of the bottles. Mr. Cooke was not a person who made any great distinction between the three degrees, acquaintance, friendship, and intimacy. When a stranger pleased him, he went from one to the other with such comparative ease that a hardhearted man, and no other, could have resented his advances. Mr. Drew was anything but a hard-hearted man, and he did not object to my client's familiarity. Mr. Cooke made no secret of his admiration for Mr. Drew, and there were just two things about him that Mr. Cooke admired and wondered at, above all else,—the bushy red whiskers. But it appeared that these were the only things that Mr. Drew was really touchy about. I noticed that the detective, without being impolite, did his best to discourage these remarks; but my client knew no such word as discouragement. He was continually saying: “I think I'll grow some like that, old man,” or “Have those cut,” and the like,—a kind of humor in which the captain took an incredible delight. And finally, when a certain pitch of good feeling had been arrived at, Mr. Cooke reached out and playfully grabbed hold of the one near him. The detective drew back. “Mr. Cooke,” said he, with dignity, “I'll have to ask you to let my whiskers alone.” “Certainly, old man,” replied my client, anything but abashed. “You'll pardon me, but they seemed too good to be true. I congratulate you on them.” I was amused as well as alarmed at this piece of boldness, but the incident passed off without any disagreeable results, except, perhaps, a slight nervousness noticeable in the detective; and this soon disappeared. As the sun grew low, the Celebrity's conductors straggled in with fishing-rods and told of an afternoon's sport, and we left the captain peacefully but sonorously slumbering on the bank. “Crocker,” said my client to me, afterwards, “they didn't feel like the real, home-grown article. But aren't they damned handsome?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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