to the norththe boatcape with itoff the shoreit in therocks. Thereveins thatlike a cross.James Sampson.
to the norththe boatcape with itoff the shoreit in therocks. Thereveins thatlike a cross.James Sampson.
to the north
the boat
cape with it
off the shore
it in the
rocks. There
veins that
like a cross.
James Sampson.
“Good enough!” said Ben, and ran down the stairs to the first floor.
The little drawer in the secretary was again made to disgorge its half-sheet of parchment and Ben laid the two papers side by side on the desk-lid. They fitted perfectly; now their message was complete.
I took the box to the northcliff where was the boatmeaning to escape with itbut they were off the shoreand so I hid it in thepocket in the rocks. Thereare two big veins thatmake a mark like a cross.James Sampson.
I took the box to the northcliff where was the boatmeaning to escape with itbut they were off the shoreand so I hid it in thepocket in the rocks. Thereare two big veins thatmake a mark like a cross.James Sampson.
I took the box to the north
cliff where was the boat
meaning to escape with it
but they were off the shore
and so I hid it in the
pocket in the rocks. There
are two big veins that
make a mark like a cross.
James Sampson.
“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Ben, “though why anyone should cut James Sampson’s writing in two is more than I can understand.” He copied the words on a sheet of paper and put the two pieces of parchment in the secret drawer. “Now let’s see what we’ve got. Sampson meant to leave the island with his box at the northern end, but he saw some enemies waiting there, so he hid the box in a crevice where the rocks are marked like a cross. All right for Mr. Sampson. That’s easy sailing. But why didn’t some of the Cotterells find what was in the hold of that little ship’s model long before this? Funny—that is.” Again his brows bent in thought. “Was James Sampson the real mahogany man? Was there a real clipper ship?” At last he shook his head. “I don’t know. But at least I’ve found something.”
Ben left the house. It was noon, and warm. The others were sailing around the island; there was no knowing when they would be back. He debated whether to go fishing, and finally decided against it. Without any definite purpose in mind he took the path at the back of Cotterell Hall that led toward the little creek.
It was only a short distance across to the inlet where David and he had landed. He went through the bushes and trees until he saw the water before him. There was the creek and there was the marshy ground where they had found the footprints. He descended the bank to look at the marks again.
There were no footprints there now: they had utterly vanished!
Ben hunted along the edge of the creek, although he was positive where the marks had been. There was not a sign of them. There had been no rain to wash them out. The soggy ground was above the reach of the tide. There was only one explanation: someone had been there since David and he had landed and had carefully removed any sign of footsteps.
To discover footprints on a supposedly uninhabited shore is thrilling, but to discover that those footprints have disappeared is even more exciting. What did it mean? Well, to Ben it clearly indicated that the person who had made those marks in the first place had some very good reason for wanting no one to know that he had been there.
Cotterell’s treasure was an ancient mystery; but this was a new one, no older in fact than the day before yesterday. This was new matter over which to cudgel one’s brains, and Ben, sitting on the bank, gave deep consideration to it until he saw the sail of theArgocreeping up from the south.
Should he tell the others of his discoveries or not? He decided to keep them a secret, including the vanished footprints, for a short time at least. But he jumped up, and ran down to the shore, and sent an ear-piercing yell across the water. The answer was a wave from Tom, and presently theArgodrew closer inland and laid her course for a small, grass-topped headland on Ben’s side of the creek.
“Don’t jump; slide down, Benjie, slide,” directed Tom.
“And slide gently,” added David. “Not as if you were making for third base with the ball getting there before you. Remember the Professor’s at the helm and we don’t want to tilt the boat.”
“Don’t you worry,” sang out Ben. “I’ll drop in so you’ll think I’m as light as a feather.” And as theArgoslipped along under the headland he let himself down, lightly and easily, but, as it happened, right on the shoulders of David.
The big fellow gave a growl. Ben’s legs had somehow contrived to twine themselves around David’s neck, and Ben was sitting there on the broad shoulders, his hands on the other boy’s head.
“Hi there! Look out!” cried Tuckerman. “You’ll upset the whole shebang!”
But Tom came to the skipper’s rescue. A steadying hand on the tiller and theArgomoved out from the shore.
Slowly Ben pushed David forward until they both came down in a heap in the little cockpit. “Behave yourselves,” ordered Tom. “I’ve got a dipper here and I’ll souse you both with cold water!”
The threat was enough. The two sat up. David grinned. “The little feller’s all right; he’s got some muscle. I shouldn’t wonder if I could make a real man out of him some day.”
Under Tom’s teaching John Tuckerman was learning something about handling a sailing dory, just as Ben had given him lessons in flounder fishing, David in making flapjacks, and the three in various swimming strokes. It was true that he still regarded theArgo’ssail, when a sudden puff of wind filled it, as an inexperienced driver regards his horse when the animal shows signs of shying—his muscles grew tense, and he frowned, and stopped talking—but he didn’t ask Tom what to do and he managed to keep the dory fairly close to the course he intended. And he was a good sport! He didn’t try to crawl out of his mistakes by arguing about them; he admitted them with a grin, and that grin was always so whole-souled and hearty that it made one want to slap him on the back and tell him that he hadn’t really made a mistake after all.
When Tuckerman had theArgowell in hand again and could think of other matters, he said to Ben, “We’ve seen plenty of rocks and ledges, but nary a thing that could properly be called a cliff. A cliff, I take it, is something fairly high and mighty, not so steep as Gibraltar perhaps, but as large as a good-sized barn-door.”
“While we’ve been hunting for cliffs,” said David, “I suppose Ben has worked this all out. What are your conclusions, oh wise one?”
“Never you mind, my boy. The clever magician waits till he has everything in order before he performs his trick.”
“Ben’s got something up his sleeve,” put in Tom. “I can always tell when he talks in that grand way. But there’s no use trying to make him tell us, Dave. The way to make an oyster talk is to pay no attention to it.”
Ben said nothing, though the temptation was great as theArgoreached the northern end of the island, where high rocks came down to the water.
Tuckerman admitted these were cliffs, but there were a number of them, and how was he to tell which was the one they wanted? They sailed slowly along, watching the shore and speculating as to what the message in the desk referred. And while the other three talked Ben sat silent, trying to picture what had happened to James Sampson there more than a century before.
Ben had a good imagination, and it led him to see Sampson as a servant of Sir Peter Cotterell, a faithful serving-man, who always did what his master told him. When the men of Barmouth threatened to take Sir Peter’s treasure the old Tory gave some of his most valuable possessions to Sampson, and the latter carried them to this end of the island where he had a small boat that should carry him to the mainland. When he reached the shore, however, he saw other Barmouth men patrolling the coast in their own boats and so his escape that way was cut off. With quick wit he hid the treasures in a cleft of the rock and blocked up the hiding-place. Ben could see it all, even to Sir Peter, in knee-breeches and wig, commending James Sampson when the man returned and related what he had done. “Good and faithful servant,” said Sir Peter; “the rascals are outwitted again!” And doubtless Sir Peter took Sampson into the dining-room and poured him out a glass of rum. Ben wasn’t sure about that; it might not have been rum; but rum sounded well, it smacked of old-time adventure. Yes, probably it was rum; and Sampson had wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and laughed with his master at the thought of the men of Barmouth sitting out there in their boats, like so many cats waiting outside a mouse-hole.
“Come out of it, Ben! Wake up!”
Ben looked up with a start. Tom was laughing at him. “Where are you, Benjie? A million miles away!”
“No,” answered Ben, “I was listening to Sir Peter talking to a man you don’t any of you know anything about.”
“Your precious mahogany man?” asked Tom. “Don’t tell me you learned something more about him while you were up at the house.”
“He means the man with the big feet,” said David. “Did you find his prints in the house?”
“David,” said Ben solemnly, “you’re absolutely certain you saw those footprints of a man on the bank of the creek, are you?”
“Absolutely,” David stated. “You don’t think it was some animal wearing a man’s shoes, do you?”
“No. I thought you saw them. But I looked this morning in the same place, and there aren’t any prints there now.”
There followed a moment’s silence; then Tuckerman exploded a loud “What?”
“Vanished, vamoosed, flown away,” Ben said with a nod.
“My eye!” exclaimed David. “This is too horrible! Is the island haunted?”
“It is peculiar,” said Tuckerman, frowning at the shore.
“Look out!” sang out Tom.
TheArgo, her helmsman unheeding his business, was slowly coming about, with a ledge of rock dead ahead. Tuckerman wheeled around, put the tiller over—the dory righted again.
“Ben,” said Tom, “don’t you spring anything like that on us again, with the Professor sailing this boat. If you’ve got any other fairy tales, you keep them till we’re on shore.”
“My fault,” said the skipper. “I’m learning. My first business is to bring us safe up to the dock.”
“And my first business,” added David, “is to get something to eat. Mysteries may come and go, but three square meals a day are always needful. How about that, Ben, my son? What did Sir Peter and this other friend of yours live on?”
“Rum,” said the solemn Ben.
“Rum! You’re a rum one! Are you sure you didn’t drink some of Sir Peter’s rum before you went to the creek and found that the footprints were missing?”
But Ben only smiled. He could afford to smile when he knew that he, and he alone, had a copy of James Sampson’s complete message tucked away in his pocket.
Needless to say, Ben would have liked to start out immediately after dinner to look for the pocket in the rocks that was marked with a cross, provided he could have found a good excuse to get away from the others; for he was still of a mind to keep his discovery a secret for the present. But the larder was in need of fresh supplies, and as soon as they had finished their cleaning up Tom announced that their immediate business was to sail across to Farmer Hapgood’s and buy some eggs and milk. So theArgoput out into the bay again, and soon the four campers, the sailboat safely moored at the Hapgood landing, were tramping up the road toward a gray-shingled cottage that had a couple of beautiful, tall elms at either side of it.
Mrs. Hapgood sold them eggs, milk, and butter, and some large loaves of freshly-baked bread. These were packed in a basket the boys had brought. When they came out from the house they stopped a few moments to chat with Mrs. Hapgood, and while they were talking two large automobiles swung in from a crossroad and raced past the farmhouse door.
The two cars were filled with boys, boys on the seats and on the running-boards. “They’re from Camp Amoussock, down along the shore a way,” Mrs. Hapgood explained. “They’re going to have a baseball game with the boys around here. My Sandy’s playing. He’s getting into his things upstairs now, but he’ll be down in a minute.”
The cars disappeared in a cloud of dust, and almost immediately a red-haired, freckle-faced young fellow, in a baseball suit, dashed out from the front door.
“Hello,” he cried, nodding to the others. “That crowd made as much noise with their horns as if they’d won the game already.”
“Pretty good team, are they?” asked David.
“Yes, they’re a good team,” said Sandy; “but mighty stuck on themselves. They come from a lot of different cities, and most of them play on their school nines. They’ve beaten us the last two summers. Gee, but we’d like to get back at ’em to-day!”
“Who’s on your team?” asked Tom.
“Well, we call ourselves the Tidewater Tigers. Most of us live around here. One, Billy Burns, comes from Barmouth. Native sons of New Hampshire against the strangers—that’s what my father says.”
“We know Billy Burns,” said Ben. “He’s a good batter.”
“Yes, he’s good,” agreed Sandy. “But they’ve got a pitcher who’s a corker. Lanky Larry they call him. He’s the goods all right—lots of speed and a curve. I’ll say he is! Fanned me three times last year.” Sandy clutched his bat. “Gee, but I’d like to sting him!”
“Let’s feel it,” said David. He took the bat and swung it several times. “A little light, but not bad,” he pronounced judicially.
“Say, why don’t you all come along? We’ll show you some real excitement. You can leave that basket here.”
The boys looked at each other, and suddenly Tuckerman burst out laughing. “Lead us to it, Sandy. I can see these three have got their tongues hanging out.”
“Well,” said David slowly, “I do hate to pass a good thing by.”
“He wants a sight of this Lanky Larry,” said Tom. “A good pitcher to Dave is like a red rag to a bull.”
Mrs. Hapgood relieved Tom of the basket. “You boys are native sons,” she said with a smile. “Go along and root for the Tigers.”
Up the road they went until they came to an open field marked out with a baseball diamond. The two automobiles were parked on one side, and on the other was a crowd of boys and girls, interspersed with a few older people. Already some of the Tigers and some of the Amoussocks were knocking out flies to their fielders.
“There’s Lanky, warming up,” said Sandy, pointing to a tall, dark-skinned fellow who was throwing a ball to a catcher in front of the automobiles. “They’re a swell lot, aren’t they? They’ve all got brand new suits this summer, with red and white stockings, and a red A on their chests.”
The Amoussocks did look very trim; more especially in contrast to the native sons, who were dressed in all sorts of suits, the most of them old and mud-stained.
“Here’s Billy Burns,” said Sandy; and as Tuckerman and the three boys went up to join the crowd, Sandy darted away to report himself to his captain.
Billy came up. “Hi, you fellows. What you doing here?”
“Digging clams for bait,” answered David. “Benjie wants to go fishing.”
“Come down to see us smear the strangers?” Billy continued, ignoring David’s joke.
“I hear that Lanky Larry’s a terror.” This from Tom.
“Terror’s the word,” Billy admitted. “Say, Dave, you think you’re some hitter in Barmouth. But you’ve never stacked up against his class.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said David. “I’ve sent some good men to the discard. Howsomever, it’s not up to me this afternoon to tackle the strangers. I’m neutral to-day.”
“Go to it, Billy!” said Ben. “We’re going to root for you. Of course we are. We’re not pikers.”
It was clear that this was a big day in the eyes of the community. A hay-wagon rattled up, loaded with empty boxes and a pile of boards. The boxes were stood on end on the ground and the planks placed across them, and the seats thus made were instantly filled by boys and girls. On the opposite side waved a large banner, white with a gigantic red A in the centre. There were shouts and cheers from both sides as the two teams gathered round the umpire; then the Tigers ran out to take the field and the first Amoussock batter stepped up to the plate.
The campers from Cotterell’s Island sat on the grass with the New Hampshire boys. Half the fun of watching any contest is in rooting for one side to win, and naturally the campers were backing the home nine. The Amoussocks had a superior air, partly due perhaps to their snappy suits and partly to the fact that they had beaten the Tigers each of the two summers before. And they knew how to play baseball; there was a snap and precision about their work that was the result of constant coaching in teamwork.
Against them the home team, mostly the sons of neighboring farmers, boys who had to coach themselves and only played together on Saturdays, showed at a decided disadvantage. They had plenty of fighting spirit and kept right up on their toes, playing for all they were worth, taking big chances in stealing bases and backing each other up on every throw. But they couldn’t hit Lanky Larry—not to any extent; and the Amoussocks could, and did, hit Sam Noyes, the Tiger pitcher.
David shook his head as the third inning ended. “That Lanky’s got ’em where he wants ’em,” he said. “He eases up a bit, and lets us get a hit or two; but watch him in the pinches. He can tighten up and shoot ’em over. Yes, siree,—nothing he likes better than a couple of them on the bases, and then putting over three strikes, simple as you please.”
Tom took a blade of grass from his mouth. “And he keeps grinning. Nothing riles a batter worse than that sort of a pitcher. ‘See how simple it is,’ he says with that smile. ‘Like taking candy from a kid to get a strike on you’—and he goes ahead and shoots one over while you’re planning how you’ll wipe the grin from his face.”
Billy Burns dropped down beside them. “Two to nothing,” he declared. “Sam’s doing mighty well, but Lanky’s doing better. It’s that in-shoot of his. I know just where it’s going, but hang it all! every blessed time I reach right out for it.”
“He’s got your goat,” said David. “You’re so all-fired mad that you don’t wait for the ball to get near you.”
“Huh, it’s easy to talk! I suppose you could wait all day.”
“Well, I wouldn’t get tied up tight, stiff as a stick. That’s the trouble with all our team. They’re so keen to hit they can’t wait. Larry’s got them going before they walk out there; and he knows it too, believe me!”
“I suppose you’d be as cool as a cucumber,” Billy jeered.
“As fat as a cucumber, you mean,” suggested Ben. “When Dave leans against the ball it’s like a ton of bricks.”
“We’re out again,” announced Billy, picking up his fielder’s glove. “We’re not so worse in the field; but golly, if we could only hit!”
The Tigers couldn’t hit, however. The crowd on the benches rooted as hard as they could, but the native sons stayed behind. And the visitors grew more dashing. They kept talking to each other on the bases, little remarks filled with self-esteem; it was easy to see they were very well pleased with themselves.
David kept pulling blades of grass, chewing them, spitting them out. Every time that a Tiger came to bat David felt as if it were he himself who was facing that smiling pitcher.
The fifth inning came and went; the score was still the same. Billy Burns, in spite of what David had told him, had struck out again.
Tom stood up and stretched. “No, boys, it isn’t our day—unless something different happens. I guess that old New Hampshire’s got to take the short end.”
Something did happen; but not what Tom expected. Billy Burns, in the outfield, running after a deep fly to centre, made a dive for the ball at full speed, stumbled, fell headlong, but held up the ball in his hand.
“Batter’s out!” cried the umpire.
The loyal rooters cheered. Billy, however, lay flat, and when, after a moment, he tried to get up, he sat down quickly again.
The other fielders ran over to him and stood him up between them. Billy held up one foot, put it down, gave a groan. “Twisted my ankle, I guess,” he muttered. He tried to take a step forward. “No go,” he added. “Hang it all, just my luck!”
Two fielders brought him in between them, Billy hopping on one foot. The Tigers held a consultation, while the Amoussocks threw the ball around. Then Sam Noyes, the Tiger captain, stepped over to David. “Billy’s down and out,” he said. “He can’t play any more. But he says you think you can hit their pitcher; and you’re from Barmouth, so that’d be all right. Want to take Billy’s place?”
David glanced up. He knew by the look on Sam’s face that the Tiger captain didn’t believe he could bat any better than the others. “All right,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to boast, you know; but I’ll do my darndest.”
“No one can do more,” murmured Tuckerman behind him.
David peeled off his coat and put on Billy’s glove. He lumbered out to centrefield while Sam Noyes explained the substitution to the Amoussock captain.
In the last half of the sixth inning David came to bat. Lanky Larry patted the ball caressingly, surveyed the new player from head to foot, and then grinned as if he had suddenly remembered a tremendous joke. David dug his feet into the earth of the batter’s box, wishing he had on the cleated shoes he wore when he played on his school team, swung his bat—one he had carefully selected from the varied assortment offered by the Tigers—and then grinned as if he also had thought of something very funny.
“I say, what’s the joke, you two fellows?” sang out a man who was standing back of the benches.
That made everybody laugh, with the result that Lanky, when he pitched the ball, threw it wide and missed the plate by a couple of inches.
“Ball one!” proclaimed the umpire.
“Make it be good!” yelled Ben.
David hitched up his trousers and lifted his bat again. Lanky patted the ball and smiled, but not so broadly. He shot the next one across the plate with speed and precision, David letting it go by without swinging at it.
“Strike one!” sang the umpire.
“You’ve got him, Lanky!” came a voice from the ranks of the Amoussocks.
“Oh dear!” sighed a girl on the Tiger’s bench, loud enough to be heard across the diamond; “I thought this fellow looked like he could knock a home run!”
There was a titter, a ripple of laughter, and Larry, fondling the ball, looked over in the direction of the girl and grinned from ear to ear.
The ball shot from his hand. There was a crack—sharp and stinging;—Larry reached out, missed the ball as it whizzed by—whizzed on over the bag at second base, sizzled on into the outfield. Centrefield couldn’t touch it; that ball simply wouldn’t stop, and didn’t until it struck a stone wall at the end of the field.
By the time the ball got back David was standing on third base, and the Tiger rooters were splitting the air with yells.
“Dave leaned against it all right, didn’t he?” said Ben to Tuckerman. “He came around on it just as easy; but when he struck he made every ounce tell.”
“He’d have had a home run if it hadn’t been for that stone wall,” said Tuckerman. “The field’s too short; it doesn’t give our Dave a show.”
Lanky Larry looked less amused. He frowned and grew thoughtful; with the result that the next Tiger up got a neat hit to right field, and David came trotting home.
But the inning ended on the next play, the Tiger being caught out at second base. The score was two to one, in the Amoussock’s favor. The crowd felt somewhat better as the Tigers took the field again. The Amoussocks, however, managed to get in another run at their turn at bat, and had a good lead of two.
The seventh and eighth innings repeated the same old story. Lanky was in form again, and none of the batters could hit him. And with the score at three to one the Amoussocks prepared to mow down their rivals in the last half of the ninth.
David was to be the third batter, and he swung two bats over his shoulder as he waited for his turn. Lanky knew what he was doing, was in fact watching him out of the corner of his eye, and looking forward to his next chance at the cocky David. Thinking what he would do to David he forgot the job in hand, and struck Sam Noyes on the arm. The umpire sent Sam to first. Larry scowled and bit his lip. The next Tiger got a hit, and Sam went to second.
The crowd jumped to its feet, both sides were rooting madly. “If only there was room for a home run!” sighed Ben. “Old Barmouth could do it! Keep cool, Dave my lad!”
David was perfectly cool, to all appearance at least, as he walked up to the plate. He smiled and gave the least little nod at the tall, dark-skinned pitcher.
A duel between these two;—that was what the crowd felt in the air. The fielders were hopping about, crouching, their hands on their knees; Sam and the Tiger on first base were flapping their arms, all ready to dash for the next base. But nobody looked at them; all eyes were on the two who were regarding each other with pleasant smiles.
“Strike one!”
David stepped back, a bit surprised, while the crowd gave a groan.
“Ball one!” There was a little ripple of satisfaction.
“But he’s got to hit it,” Tom muttered in Tuckerman’s ear. “A base on balls won’t do. The next fellow’d go out.”
And David knew he’d got to hit it, and kept telling himself not to tighten up. “Easy does it, easy does it,” kept singing over and over in his mind. If he tried too hard Lanky would get him just as he had gotten the others; and he knew perfectly well that was what Lanky intended that he should do.
“Strike two!”
Larry had outguessed him that time, giving him a slow drop. David eased his muscles, smiled his confident smile, settled evenly on his feet. This next would be the in-shoot. Larry would save that for the last. “Easy does it; take your time.” David looked at the pitcher, not angrily, not intently, just with a jovial dare.
And the bat, with David’s shoulders behind it, and his waist and his legs as well, met that ball as it curved in toward him fair and square on the nose. There was a mighty crack—the sort that sings in the ears and makes the pulses tingle—and away and away went the ball. Over the pitcher’s head, over the heads of the fielders; far out in the field it struck the ground at last and bounded over the stone wall. It brought up against a cow, that was lying down in a meadow, and it gave her such a bump that she rose in haste and went galloping away, not knowing what had struck her. And by the time the first Amoussock outfielder touched that ball Sam Noyes and the next Tiger and David had circled the bases and the game was won.
Billy Burns hopped over to David, forgetful of his sprained ankle. “Put it there, old scout!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I never saw such a hit! Gee whillikins! Dave, you’re the stuff all right!”
“Easy does it,” said David, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Easy!” exclaimed Billy. “You call that easy! I’d like to know what you do to a ball when you hit it hard!”
David would have liked to have taken to his heels and beaten it down the road to the bay, but he was not allowed to do this. Not only the Tigers, but all that section of New Hampshire appeared to think that he had vindicated the honor of the country against the big cities, represented in this case by the boys of Camp Amoussock. Horny-handed farmers insisted on coming up and shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, inviting him to supper. And what tickled Ben more than anything else was to see the girl who had exclaimed, “I thought this fellow looked like he could knock a home run!” push her way through the crowd and thrust out her hand at David.
Ben nudged Tom. “Look at our brave boy now.”
The girl was saying, “I knew you looked like a winner. I’ve got a kid brother at home; he’s got a sore foot and couldn’t get over here; but I’m going to tell him how you soaked that ball and hit the old cow, and maybe he won’t be excited! What’s your name? He’ll want to know.”
No beet was ever redder than David’s face as he gave a sheepish grin. “David Norton,” he said. And as the girl insisted on shaking hands he touched her fingers gingerly. “Much obliged,” he stammered. “Hope the kid’s foot gets well again. Funny about that cow;—hope it didn’t hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t care,” said the girl, “if it broke one of her ribs. But don’t you worry, Mr. Norton. I’m right glad to have met you.” And she pushed her way out of the throng again, delighted to be able to tell her kid brother that she had shaken hands with the hero of the day.
“You may be a mighty batter,” said Ben, when David was able at last to rejoin his friends, “but when it comes to the girls you’re a beautiful imitation of a wooden Indian. You shake hands like a pump.”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled David, who always stood more or less in fear of girls, and hated to be teased about them. “I suppose you’d have made her some kind of a pretty speech; asked her to dance, perhaps.”
“I’d have looked as if I liked being told how fine I was. Oh, what a shame it is that nobody ever says such things to me,” sighed Ben, “when I’m the one that could really appreciate them!”
Sandy Hapgood now came up, and David, eager to be rid of any more talk about the game, hurried his friends away. “Looks like a thunderstorm,” he said, squinting at the sky, where dark clouds were rapidly rising.
They passed the meadow, where the cow was now peacefully chewing her cud again. She cast a reproachful eye at the boy in the baseball suit. “That’s the longest hit that was ever made on our field,” remarked Sandy. “And against Lanky Larry, too! Oh boy! Did you see Lanky after the game? He looked—well, he didn’t look so all-fired stuck on himself.”
“He’s a fine pitcher,” said David; “a mighty good one.”
They quickened their steps, for big drops of rain were beginning to fall. They turned in at the Hapgood farmhouse and stopped long enough for a word with Sandy’s mother. Tom swung the basket of provisions on his arm.
“Don’t you think you’d better wait a short spell,” said Mrs. Hapgood. “Looks to me as if we were in for a right smart shower.”
They looked at the sky—pierced now with frequent sharp jabs of lightning.
“It’s not raining hard yet,” said Tuckerman. “How about it, boys?”
“Let’s beat it,” said Tom.
Out in the road again they jogged down to the water, where theArgowas fastened. Casting her adrift, Tom took the tiller.
It was a real summer thunderstorm that had come up quickly—spurts of rain and banks of black clouds—at the end of the warm day.
But the boys were used to a wetting, and Tom had often sailed through a heavier downpour than this. David stretched himself out on a seat in luxurious comfort. “A shower-bath feels good,” he murmured. “All I want now is a good swim.”
The wind, however, wouldn’t stay in any one quarter; it kept jumping about as if it were trying to box the compass and succeeding pretty well. Tom had to keep changing course. TheArgozigzagged about like a darning-needle flying over a pond. And the thunder kept crashing louder, and the lightning opening bigger and bigger cracks in the violet-black of the sky.
“Hello, there’s a canoe!” sang out Ben suddenly.
Ahead of them, an eighth of a mile from shore, a cockleshell craft was dancing over the waves. There were two people in it, one at either end, and each was paddling fast.
“Ticklish business,” said Tuckerman. “There’s white water off that point. See how it jerks about. I say, Tom, couldn’t we get up near them?”
“Righto,” answered the skipper. “Confound those blooming gusts!”
If theArgowas having her hands full in standing up to the constant squalls that kept chasing over the water, the canoe was finding the struggle an even more difficult task. She careened, righted, almost disappeared in a wave. TheArgo’screw were now all at the rail, except the skipper, watching the little craft battle her way along.
Then Ben sang out: “Why, it’s Lanky Larry and the Amoussock captain! Gee, but that water’s rough!”
A lightning flash so vivid that it seemed to daze the crews of both the boats, was followed by a roll of thunder that shook the sea and the sky. Next instant the waves leaped up as if in a frenzy of fright. A great roller caught the canoe and twisted her nose about; another slapped her amidships; a third—All that the crew of theArgosaw was a swirl of wild waters where the little craft had been.
Tuckerman muttered something. Tom, with a shout of warning, brought theArgoabout. Now there were to be seen in the water two heads, two tossing paddles, and the upturned bottom of the canoe.
The point of land was not far distant, and for some reason the boys in the water were striking out in that direction, possibly because they thought the sailboat, in such a squall, could not keep her course.
While Tom manoeuvred theArgo, the other three watched the swimmers. Both were making fair headway, the Amoussock captain somewhat in the lead. Then suddenly Larry threw up his hands and disappeared.
Tom swung the sailboat around, and almost instantly Ben and David, coats and shoes stripped off, dove into the water. For the moment the sea was calmer, and the two made the most of their chance. Hand over hand, in great spurts, they drew closer and closer to the place where Larry had vanished.
Tom said things to the sail, which would not fill as he wanted. Tuckerman clutched the rail, his eyes never leaving the swimmers. And at last—an eternity, it seemed to the watcher—the two boys reached the spot. A moment later, and in some way they had managed to draw Larry up between them.
By now the Amoussock captain had turned and was swimming back; and by now Tom had contrived to make theArgobehave. With a rush she arrived where the boys were struggling in the waves. Ben clutched at the side; with his other hand he helped David lift Larry up into Tuckerman’s arms.
Larry was hauled aboard. David and Ben climbed in. The other boy was pulled up from the water.
TheArgo, restive, cavorting, commenced to dance again. “Can’t stop to pick up the canoe,” muttered Tom. “Thank Heaven, Lanky’s all right!”
Larry, very white and shivering, was rubbing the muscles of his legs. “It was a cramp,” he explained. “Doubled me up in a minute.”
Tuckerman put his coat around Larry’s shoulders. “Never mind, never mind,” he kept murmuring. “We’ll have you up at my house in a couple of jiffies.”
And, the wind blowing great guns, but keeping in a fairly steady direction, theArgosoon reached the island. By that time Larry, assisted by Tuckerman, had managed to rub the kinks out of his leg muscles, and was able to hobble ashore.
Cold, and drenched, and all of them shivering more or less, the party went up to the house. “The kitchen’s the place,” said Tuckerman. “There’s plenty of firewood there.”
Shortly the logs were blazing on the wide kitchen hearth, and Tuckerman, finding a tin of coffee in a cupboard, was making a steaming drink. Tom in the meantime had brought an armful of Christopher Cotterell’s clothes from a room abovestairs, and the boys who had been in the water put on dry things.
“Well,” said Larry, when he was warm and dry, and had swallowed half-a-cupful of Tuckerman’s steaming hot coffee, “I knew this David fellow was a good sport when I tried to strike him out this afternoon; though I tell you it made me mad when he stung that ball for a homer.”
“Don’t mention it,” said David. “A fellow’s got to do his duty.”
“You do yours, all right,” nodded Larry. “I guess we’ll have to forgive him now, won’t we, Bill?”
Bill Crawford, the Amoussock captain, gave his knee a great slap. “We’ll have to elect him to the club of good scouts, Lanky. And the rest of this bunch, too.”
“Pass the coffee pot,” said David.
Stretched at his ease in a cane-bottomed kitchen chair, Larry’s eyes roved around the room. “I thought there wasn’t anybody on this island this summer,” he said. “That’s the story they tell at the camp.”
“Oh yes, it’s deserted,” said Ben, “except for Professor Tuckerman and his three able assistants.”
“What is the Professor doing here?” asked Bill Crawford.
There was a momentary silence, broken by Ben’s solemn voice. “He’s busy polishing up the knocker of the big front door. I don’t know whether you noticed it when you came in, but there is a beautiful knocker, made of pure brass. He shines it every day.”
An amused snicker from Bill was followed by Larry’s asking another question.
“This is the Cotterell house, isn’t it? There’s some old yarn about it, seems to me I’ve heard.”
“Did you ever hear of an old house that didn’t have some yarn attached to it?” demanded Tuckerman.
“Change the subject, Lanky,” sang out Bill. “’Tisn’t fair to pry into the family’s secrets.”
“Right you are.” Larry stretched his arms. “Well, the question before us is how are we going to get back to camp before they find that canoe, and us missing?”
Tom went to the kitchen door and looked out. “The storm isn’t over yet,” he announced. “Couldn’t you lads stay to supper? If you will, I’ll sail you back afterwards. Likely as not the water’ll be smooth as a mill-pond in an hour or so.”
“They won’t be looking for you at your camp yet,” said Tuckerman. “They’ll think you landed somewhere, and are waiting for the squall to blow over.”
“We’ll stay to supper,” said Bill. “It would be a shame to have you fellows get wet again on account of us.”
David jumped up. “We’ve got provisions stowed away right here in the kitchen.” Rolling up his sleeves, he gave directions to his assistant cooks.
The kitchen of Cotterell Hall had never seen as much activity as it did in the next half hour, with the result that a sumptuous feast was soon set out on the table.
They ate as if they hadn’t tasted food for a week, cleaned up, and trooped out to the front door. The squall was over, a light wind was blowing—not enough to ruffle the water—and stars were beginning to shine in a cloudless sky.
TheArgo’ssail was raised, and the skipper sent her across the bay to the place where the canoe had upset. Search soon found the canoe rocking in the surf on a sandy beach of the mainland. She was righted and her painter fastened to a cleat at the stern of the sailboat, and theArgotook a course alongshore. Presently, rounding a point, the crew saw a bonfire at Camp Amoussock lighting a stretch of woods.
They all went ashore, and found the Camp just about to start out on a search for the missing boys. The visitors had to stay a while and be entertained by their hosts, and it was not until the moon was high in the sky that theArgoagain pushed her nose across the water, a southernly breeze filling her sail.
As they came abreast of the western end of their island another sailboat, looking like a great white moth in the moonlight, went scudding away over the silver sea.
“Hello,” said Ben, “what is she doing here? Poaching on our preserves, it seems to me.”
“The harbor’s free to everyone,” said David. “I don’t suppose even Crusty Christopher objected to people sailing boats on the water, if they didn’t try to land on his shore.”
“Lanky knew there was some old yarn about the Cotterell house,” Ben continued, paying no attention to David’s remark. “And if he knew, why shouldn’t others?”
“Well,” said Tom, “what’s the answer?”
“The answer is that we’re likely to have callers. Not the kind that leave their visiting-cards, but the sort that snoop around when nobody’s home.”
“Thieves?” questioned David.
“No,” said Ben, “I didn’t mean thieves exactly. Detectives come nearer to what I meant.”
Tuckerman chuckled. “Benjamin, you’re a wonder! You never let go of an idea once you get your teeth in it, do you? I’d forgotten all about the treasure. I was studying the stars, and Dave was thinking about baseball, and Tom about the course he’s steering; but you—why, you were puzzling your wits about Sir Peter and the mahogany man, and goodness knows what else. Keep it up, Ben my boy. That’s the road to success.”
And Ben, thinking of what he had found that morning, grinned but said nothing. If he could only work out the scheme he had in his mind, he felt that he would be prouder than if he knocked home runs against the very best baseball pitchers in the major leagues.
John Tuckerman was leaning on his arm and looking out at the sparkling, gleaming blue-green water when Ben Sully woke next day. Ben kept still and watched him, as he had watched him on several other mornings. Tuckerman looked so absorbed, so intent. He seemed to be sniffing the air. And Ben, to whom a summer morning on the New England coast presented no novelty, appreciated that to this man everything about him seemed like a part of wonderland.
The only sounds were the lapping of waves and the calling of birds in the woods back of the camp. A great gray-white gull was soaring far out over the water, slanting first this way, then that, as though he were trying his wings before he made a real flight. Nearer shore two white terns circled round and round, and then dropped straight in the bay, their sharp beaks darting at fish. The shore of the mainland rose in a green swell, on which pearl-colored fleecy clouds seemed to be floating, and the shore of the island itself, above the beach, was a tangle of bay and juniper and wild roses, all shades of greens and pinks in the early sun.
Ben saw this through Tuckerman’s eyes, and felt the spell of enchantment. Then David rolled over, stretched his arms, grunted; and the spell was broken. A pine-cone, tossed by Ben, landed on David’s nose. “Hi there, you mosquito!” exclaimed the nose’s owner. He threw the pine-cone at Tom. “Time to be up, lazybones. Breakfast in half-an-hour, and those who aren’t down when the bell rings won’t get any!”
“The tub’s mine first!” shouted John Tuckerman, and pulling off his pajamas he took a few leaps across the grass and raced over the sand to the water, where he ducked under a wave and bobbed up again, splashing and yelling.
Ben, then David, then Tom, followed, making more noise between them than all the wildfowl on the island put together. The water was cold, but fine for a morning swim, and when, after fifteen minutes, the four came out on the beach again, they seized the Turkish towels that hung conveniently on a juniper, and rubbed themselves to a brilliant lobster-like glow.
“That particular swimming-pool,” said John Tuckerman,—“I refer to the one commonly called the damp spot, or the ocean,—beats all the porcelain-lined tubs it has ever been my privilege to bathe in. It’s true there’s only cold water; but come out into this sun for a few minutes and you’ll be hot enough. Now it seems to me”—but at that particular moment he began to pull his flannel shirt over his head, and when his words again became audible he was saying “shake well, and take a teaspoonful in a glass of water every morning before breakfast.”
Breakfast! Magic word after a swim in the ocean! The boys jumped into their clothes and set to work. For the next half-hour the thoughts of all the campers were centred on food.
But as soon as his plate was cleared Ben began to consider another matter. He quoted lines to himself, “I took the box to the north cliff.... I hid it in the pocket in the rocks. There are two veins that make a mark like a cross.” Very good; that was plain. And as soon as the after-breakfast chores were done he said, rather self-consciously, “I know where there’s a pool full of cunners,” and picking up his fishing-rod and tackle, he hurried into the woods.
He looked back over his shoulder once or twice, but no one was following him. Through the thickets, dappled with sunshine, he went at a brisk trot. This brought him out on the north shore, where the high rocks towered above the beach like a line of battlements. He swung himself over a cliff and dropped lightly on to the sand. Leaving his fishing-rod in a convenient place where he could pick it up quickly if anyone came by, he began his search.
There were crevices in the rocks, and each of these had to be explored. Bushes and trailing vines, growing from little footholds, covered the seaward surface of many of the cliffs. But Ben, thrilled with the sense of exploration, and persevering by nature, stuck to his task, and was rewarded at last by finding what he sought, two veins of a light yellow color that made the distinct mark of a cross.
“That’s it!” he muttered, excited. “And, by Jove, there’s the pocket!”
Down on his knees he went, and thrust his head into an opening. He pushed himself forward by digging his toes in the sand. And soon his outstretched hand touched a large chest, he felt metal bands about it, he pushed it, but it was wedged in tight.
Presently he pulled himself out, stood up, and considered the situation. He had found the box that James Sampson had hid in the rocks. His first thought was what a tremendously strong man Sampson must have been to carry such a chest all the way from Cotterell Hall to this north shore. However, Sampson might not have carried it; he might have brought it in a cart or by some other means. And his next thought was, how could Benjamin Sully get that chest out of the pocket.
That took a good deal of thinking, and he sat down and considered it from various angles.
Into his brown study two voices from somewhere back of him made interruption abruptly.
“He’s fishing for cunners on the dry sand! First time I ever saw that done. He just coaxes ’em out of the water.”
“Keep quiet! He’s counting the grains of sand. He’s got up into the millions.”
“He’s thinking up a way to hypnotize the fish. Stare at them hard enough, and they’ll swim right up on the beach.”
“He’s copying King Canute. Telling the waves to go back.”
“He’s working out a time-table for the tides.”
Ben turned his head. “As a matter of fact, the thing I’m thinking about is a thousand times more interesting than anything you’ve guessed.”
The two voices were those of David and Tom.
“I’ve always said,” observed David, “that you can’t catch our Benjie napping. He seems to be sitting there like a bump on a log, but he’s really thinking of the most remarkable things.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” nodded Tom, “if it was something utterly prodigious—like why the water’s wet or fish have scales.”
“No,” said Ben pleasantly, “I was wondering how I could get Peter Cotterell’s treasure chest out of the place where his servant James Sampson hid it. It’s rather too heavy for me to handle by myself.”
The other two stared. “Benjie oughtn’t to have come out here without a cork helmet,” said David. “I suppose he’s got a sunstroke.”