We sat down to a hasty breakfast, in the middle of which the Celebrity arrived. His appearance was unexceptionable, but his heavy jaw was set in a manner which should have warned Mr. Cooke not to trifle with him.
“Sit down, old man, and take a bite before we start for Canada,” said my client.
The Celebrity walked up to him.
“Mr. Cooke,” he began in a menacing tone, “it is high time this nonsense was ended. I am tired of being made a buffoon of for your party. For your gratification I have spent a sleepless night in those cold, damp woods; and I warn you that practical joking can be carried too far. I will not go to Canada, and I insist that you sail me back to Asquith.”
Mr. Cooke winked significantly in our direction and tapped his head.
“I don't wonder you're a little upset, old man,” he said, humoringly patting him; “but sit down for a bite of something, and you'll see things differently.”
“I've had my breakfast,” he said, taking out a cigarette.
Then Mr. Trevor got up.
“He demands, sir, to be delivered over to the authorities,” said he, “and you have no right to refuse him. I protest strongly.”
“And you can protest all you damn please,” retorted my client; “this isn't the Ohio State Senate. Do you know where I would put you, Mr. Trevor? Do you know where you ought to be? In a hencoop, sir, if I had one here. In a hen-coop. What would you do if a man who had gone a little out of his mind asked you for a gun to shoot himself with? Give it him, I suppose. But I put Mr. Allen ashore in Canada, with the funds to get off with, and then my duty's done.”