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 contented frame of mind, and
the Maria's departure did not seem to have annoyed or disturbed him.
"Castaways," says he, gayly, "castaways on a foreign shore. Two
delightful young ladies, a bright young lawyer, a fugitive from justice,
no chaperon, and nothing to eat. And what a situation for a short story,
if only an author were permitted to make use of his own experiences!"
"Only you don't know how it will end," Miss Thorn put in.
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