But the senator had not yet reached that extreme of degradation where it is pleasurable to be congratulated on wickedness.
My client added up the figures and rubbed his hands. I regret to say that the aggregate would have bought up three small police organizations, body and soul.
“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.