aid, "if Allen is scooped in spite of us, you have got to
go East and make him out an idiot."

He seemed to think that I had a talent for this particular defence. I
replied that I would do my best.

"It won't be difficult," he went on; "not near as tough as that case you
won for me. You can bring in all the bosh about his claiming to be an
author, you know. And I'll stand expenses."

This was downright generous of Mr. Cooke. We have all, no doubt, drawn
our line between what is right and what is wrong, but I have often
wondered how many of us with the world's indorsement across our backs
trespass as little on the other side of the line as he.

After Farrar and the Four got aboard it fell to my lot to row the rest of
the party to the yacht. And this was no slight task that morning. The
tender was small, holding but two beside the man at the oars, and owing
to the rocks and shallow water of which I have spoken, the Maria lay
considerably over a quarter of a mile out. Hence each trip occupied some
time. Mr. Cooke I had transferred with a load of canvas and the tent
poles, and next I returned for Mrs. Cooke and Mr. Trevor, whom I
deposited safely. Then I landed again, helped in Miss Trevor and Miss
Thorn, leaving the Celebrity for the last, and was pulling for the yacht
when a cry from the tender's stern arrested me.

"Mr. Crocker, they are sailing away without us!"

I turned in my seat. The Maria's mainsail was up, and the jib was being
hoisted, and her head was rapidly falling off to the wind. Farrar was
casting. In the stern, waving a handkerchief, I recognized Mrs. Cooke,
and beside her a figure in black, gesticulating frantically, a vision of
coat-tails flapping in the breeze. Then the yacht heeled on her course
and forged lakewards.

"Row, Mr. Crocker, row! they are leaving us!" cried Miss Trevor, in
alarm.

I hastened to reassure her.

"Farrar is probably trying something," I said. "They will be turning
presently."

This is just what they did not do. Once out of the inlet, they went
about and headed northward, up the coast, and we remained watching them
until Mr. Trevor became a mere oscillating black speck against the sail.

"What can it mean?" asked Miss Thorn.

I had not so much as an idea.

"They certainly won't desert us, at any rate," I said. "We had better
go ashore again and wait."

The Celebrity was seated on the beach, and he was whittling. Now
whittling is an occupation which speaks of a