So we'll
have to go to Far Harbor."
I caught the hint. Mr. Cooke had given out that he had started for
Saville to restock the larder.
"No," he continued, "Brass Buttons didn't let me get to Saville. You
see, when he got back to town last night they told him he had been
buncoed out of the biggest thing for years, and they got it into his head
that I was child enough to run a ferry for criminals. They told him he
wasn't the sleuth he thought he was, so he came back. They'll have the
laugh on him now, for sure."
McCann listened with admirable good-nature, gravely pulling at his cigar,
and eyeing Mr. Cooke with a friendly air of admiration.
"Mr. Crocker," he said, with melancholy humor, "it's leery I am with the
whole shooting-match. Mr. Cooke here is a gentleman, every inch of him,
and so be you, Mr. Crocker. But I'm just after taking a look at the hole
in the bottom of the boat. 'Ye have yer bunks in queer places, Mr.
Cooke,' says I. It's not for me to be doubting a gentleman's word, sir,
but I'm thinking me man is over the hills and far away, and that's true
for ye."
Mr. Cooke winked expressively.
"McCann, you've been jerked," said he. "Have another bottle!"
The Sinclair towed us to Far Harbor for a consideration, the wind being
strong again from the south, and McCann was induced by the affable owner
to remain on the yellow-plush yacht.
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