ir."

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