Thus it came to pass that Tuesday morning found the party assembled on the wharf at Mohair, the Four and the Celebrity, as well as Mr. Cooke, having produced yachting suits from their inexhaustible wardrobes.  Mr. Trevor and his daughter, Mrs. Cooke and Miss Thorn, and Farrar and myself completed the party.  We were to adhere strictly to primeval principles:  the ladies were not permitted a maid, while the Celebrity was forced to leave his manservant, and Mr. Cooke his chef.  I had, however, thrust into my pocket the Minneapolis papers, which had been handed me by the clerk on their arrival at the inn, which happened just as I was leaving.  ‘Quod bene notandum!’

Thereby hangs a tale!

For the northern lakes the day was rather dead:  a little wind lay in the southeast, scarcely enough to break the water, with the sky an intense blue.  But the Maria was hardly cast and under way before it became painfully apparent that the Celebrity was much better fitted to lead a cotillon than to sail a boat.  He gave his orders, nevertheless, in a firm, seamanlike fashion, though with no great pertinence, and thus managed to establish the confidence of Mr. Cooke.  Farrar, after setting things to rights, joined Mrs. Cooke and me over the cabin.

“How about hoisting the spinnaker, mate?” the Celebrity shouted after him.

Farrar did not deign to answer:  his eye was on the wind.  And the boom, which had been acting uneasily, finally decided to gybe, and swept majestically over, carrying two of the Four in front of it, and all but dropped them into the water.

“A common occurrence in a light breeze,” we heard the Celebrity reassure Mr. Cooke and Miss Thorn.

“The Maria has vindicated her sex,” remarked Farrar.

We laughed.

“Why don’t you sail, Mr. Farrar?” asked Mrs. Cooke.

“He can’t do any harm in this breeze,” Farrar replied; “it isn’t strong enough to get anywhere with.”

He was right.  The boom gybed twenty times that morning, and the Celebrity offered an equal number of apologies.  Mr. Cooke and the Four vanished, and from the uproarious laughter which arose from the cabin transoms I judged they were telling stories.  While Miss Thorn spent the time profitably in learning how to conn a yacht.  At one, when we had luncheon, Mohair was still in the distance.  At two it began to cloud over, the wind fell flat, and an ominous black bank came up from the south.  Without more ado, Farrar, calling on me to give him a hand, eased down the halliards and began to close reef the mainsail.

“Hold on,” said the Celebrity, “who told you to do that?”

“I am very sure you didn’t,” Farrar returned, as he hauled out a reef earing.

Here a few drops of rain on the deck warned the ladies to retire to the cabin.

“Take the helm until I get my mackintosh, will you, Farrar?” said the Celebrity, “and be careful what you do.”