“I thought you incapable of resentment, Mr. Crocker. How mean of you to deny him!”
“It can do no harm,” I answered; “a little lesson in the dangers of incognito may be salutary. I wish it were a little lesson in the dangers of something else.”
The color mounted to her face as she resumed her occupation.
“I am afraid you are a very wicked man,” she said.
Before I could reply there came a scuffling sound from the bank above us, and the snapping of branches and twigs. It was Mr. Cooke. His descent, the personal conduction of which he lost half-way down, was irregular and spasmodic, and a rude concussion at the bottom knocked off a choice bit of profanity which was balanced on the tip of his tongue.
“Tobogganing is a little out of season,” said his niece, laughing heartily.
Mr. Cooke brushed himself off, picked up the glasses which he had dropped in his flight and pushed them into my hands. Then he pointed lakeward with bulging eyes.
“Crocker, old man,” he said in a loud whisper, “they tell me that is an Asquith cat-boat.”
I followed his finger and saw for the first time a sail-boat headed for the island, then about two miles off shore. I raised the glasses.
“Yes,” I said, “the Scimitar.”