We were now working up into the lee of the island, whose tall pines stood clean and black against the red glow of the evening sky.  Mr. Cooke began to give evidences of life, and finally got up and overhauled one of the ice-chests for a restorative.  Farrar put into the little cove, where we dropped anchor, and soon had the chief sufferers ashore; and a delicate supper, in the preparation of which Miss Thorn showed her ability as a cook, soon restored them.  For my part, I much preferred Miss Thorn’s dishes to those of the Mohair chef, and so did Farrar.  And the Four, surprising as it may seem, made themselves generally useful about the camp in pitching the tents under Farrar’s supervision.  But the Celebrity remained apart and silent.

CHAPTER XI

Our first, night in the Bear Island camp passed without incident, and we all slept profoundly, tired out by the labors of the day before.  After breakfast, the Four set out to explore, with trout-rods and shot-guns.  Bear Island is, with the exception of the cove into which we had put, as nearly round as an island can be, and perhaps three miles in diameter.  It has two clear brooks which, owing to the comparative inaccessibility of the place, still contain trout and grayling, though there are few spots where a fly can be cast on account of the dense underbrush.  The woods contain partridge, or ruffed grouse, and other game in smaller quantities.  I believe my client entertained some notion of establishing a preserve here.

The insults which had been heaped upon the Celebrity on the yacht seemed to have raised rather than lowered him in Miss Thorn’s esteem, for these two ensconced themselves among the pines above the camp with an edition de luxe of one of his works which she had brought along.  They were soon absorbed in one of those famous short stories of his with the ending left open to discussion.  Mr. Cooke was indisposed.  He had not yet recovered from the shaking up his system had sustained, and he took to a canvas easy chair he had brought with him and placed a decanter of Scotch and a tumbler of ice at his side.  The efficacy of this remedy was assured.  And he demanded the bunch of newspapers he spied protruding from my pocket.

The rest of us were engaged in various occupations:  Mr. Trevor relating experiences of steamboat days on the Ohio to Mrs. Cooke; Miss Trevor buried in a serial in the Century; and Farrar and I taking an inventory of fishing-tackle, when we were startled by aloud and profane ejaculation.  Mr. Cooke had hastily put down his glass and was staring at the newspaper before him with eyes as large as after-dinner coffee-cups.

“Come here,” he shouted over at us.  “Come here, Crocker,” he repeated, seeing we were slow to move.  “For God’s sake, come here!”

In obedience to this emphatic summons I crossed the stream and drew near to Mr. Cooke, who was busily pouring out another glass of whiskey to tide him over this strange excitement.  But, as Mr. Cooke was easily excited and on such occasions always drank whiskey to quiet his nerves, I thought nothing of it.  He was sitting bolt upright and held out the paper to me with a shaking hand, while he pointed to some headlines on the first page.  And this is what I read: