Although my client could have told you, offhand, jackstraw’s last mile in a bicycle sulky, his notion of the Scimitar’s speed was as vague as his knowledge of seamanship.  And when I informed him that in all probability she had already passed the light on Far Harbor reef, some nine miles this side of the Far Harbor police station, he went into an inordinate state of excitement.  Mr. Cooke was, indeed, that day the embodiment of an unselfish if misdirected zeal.  He was following the dictates of both heart and conscience in his endeavor to rescue his guest from the law; and true zeal is invariably contagious.  What but such could have commanded the unremitting labors of that morning?  Farrar himself had done three men’s work before breakfast, and it was, in great part, owing to 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.