“Mr. Crocker, they are sailing away without us!”
I turned in my seat. 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.