"Pull up, Farrar, old man," he shouted.
Farrar released the wheel and threw the Maria into the wind. With the
sail cracking and the big boom dodging over our heads, we watched the tug
as she drew nearer and nearer, until we could hear the loud beating of
her engines. On one side some men were making ready to lower a boat, and
then a conspicuous figure in blue stood out by the davits. Then came the
faint tinkle of a bell, and the H Sinclair, of Far Harbor, glided up and
thrashed the water scarce a biscuit-throw away.
"Hello, there!" the man in uniform called out. It was Captain McCann,
chief of the Far Harbor police.
Mr. Cooke waved his cigar politely.
"Is that Mr. Cooke's yacht, the Maria?
"The same," said Mr. Cooke.
"I'm fearing I'll have to come aboard you, Mr. Cooke."
"All right, old man, glad to have you," said my client.
This brought a smile to McCann's face as he got into his boat. We were
all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of
the cabin door. I had time to note that he was pale, and no more: I must
have been pale myself. A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria's
stern.
"It's not me that likes to interfere with a gent's pleasure party, but
business is business," said he, as he climbed aboard.
My client's hospitality was oriental.
"Make yourself at home, old man," he said, a box of his largest and
blackest cigars in his hand.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191