Miss Trevor gave her one expressive look of gratitude.  The senator was effectually silenced.  He had come, by some inexplicable inference, to believe that Mrs. Cooke, while subservient to the despotic will of her husband, had been miraculously saved from depravity, and had set her face against this last monumental act of outlawry.

THE CELEBRITY

By Winston Churchill

VOLUME 4.

CHAPTER XV

I am convinced that Mr. Cooke possessed at least some of the qualities of a great general.  In certain campaigns of past centuries, and even of this, it has been hero-worship that impelled the rank and file rather than any high sympathy with the cause they were striving for.  And so it was with us that morning.  Our commander was everywhere at once, encouraging us to work, and holding over us in impressive language the awful alternative of capture.  For he had the art, in a high degree, of inoculating his followers with the spirit which animated him; and shortly, to my great surprise, I found myself working as though my life depended on it.  I certainly did not care very much whether the Celebrity was captured or not, and yet, with the prospect of getting him over the border, I had not thought of breakfast.  Farrar had a natural inclination for work of this sort, but even he was infused somewhat with the contagious haste and enthusiasm which filled the air; and together we folded the tents with astonishing despatch and rowed them out to the Maria, Mr. Cooke having gone to his knees in the water to shove the boat off.

“What are we doing this for?” said Farrar to me, as we hoisted the sail.

We both laughed.

“I have just been asking myself that question,” I replied.

“You are a nice district attorney, Crocker,” he said.  “You have made a most proper and equitable decision in giving your consent to Allen’s escape.  Doesn’t your conscience smart?”

“Not unbearably.  I’ll tell you what, Farrar,” said I, “the truth is, that this fellow never embezzled so much as a ten-cent piece.  He isn’t guilty:  he isn’t the man.”

“Isn’t the man?” repeated Farrar.

“No,” I answered; “it’s a long tale, and no time to tell it now.  But he is really, as he claims to be, the author of all those detestable books we have been hearing so much of.”

“The deuce he is!” exclaimed Farrar, dropping the stopper he was tying.  “Did he write The Sybarites?”

“Yes, sir; he wrote The Sybarites, and all the rest of that trash.”

“He’s the fellow that maintains a man ought to marry a girl after he has become engaged to her.”

“Exactly,” I said, smiling at his way of putting it.

“Preaches constancy to all men, but doesn’t object to stealing.”

I laughed.