o 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.

CHAPTER XVI

About half-past eleven Mr. Cooke's vigilance was rewarded by a glimpse
of the lighthouse on Far Harbor reef, and almost simultaneously he picked
up, to the westward, the ragged outline of the