“Sampson put the chest there,” he concluded.
“Sampson put the chest there,” he concluded.
“What are you driving at?” asked Tom. “Have you really found the treasure, Ben?”
Ben pointed negligently toward the cleft in the rock. “There,” he answered. “See that yellow cross? That marks where he hid the chest.”
“You’re dreaming!” David snorted.
“How do you know?” questioned Tom.
Ben took from his pocket the piece of paper that bore James Sampson’s message. He read it aloud, slowly, giving each word full weight. “Sampson put the chest there,” he concluded. “And there it is now. I crawled in and found it.”
Even David was impressed by that. He got down on his knees and poked into the cavern, and when he stood up he nodded solemnly.
“There is something in there,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder if Ben might be right.”
“Well,” said Tom, “there’s a rope in the sailboat. We left her around the point.” He hurried away.
In a few minutes he was back, with a coil of good-sized rope.
Taking an end of this, Ben again crawled into the opening and made the rope tight about the chest. Then the three boys took hold of the other end of the rope and began to pull. The sand was not very secure footing and the chest was heavy, but gradually they pulled it out. They discovered it was a box made of hard wood, with iron fastenings.
“Well,” declared Tom, “if James Sampson carried that all the way here by himself, all I’ve got to say is that he deserves his name.”
“These mahogany men,” added David, “supposing that the fellow who carried this chest was a mahogany man—must belong to a race of giants. I wonder if it was a mahogany man who made those footprints on the edge of the creek?”
Ben had picked up a flat stone, shaped something like a large Indian arrowhead, and another round stone; and inserting the first stone under the lid of the chest, he struck it several blows with the other.
Tom watched him a moment. “You can’t pry it open that way,” he asserted. Looking along the beach, he selected a big, egg-shaped stone and brought it back to the chest. Lifting it in both hands, he dropped it on the iron band just above the lock. The iron snapped apart. The stone bounced off on the sand.
David and Ben seized the lid. With a creaking of hinges it was lifted. There before them was a light blue coat, gold-braided, a three-cornered hat of felt, a sword in a tarnished scabbard.
“My eye!” exclaimed Tom. “Just clothes! Why in the world did he want to hide such things?”
Ben was flinging them aside. Underneath were other garments, several suits of the style worn by gentlemen in Revolutionary days, and then the oddest collection of bric-a-brac, candlesticks, pewter pitchers, a silver snuff-box, a couple of lacquered platters, and even some china plates.
David started to laugh. “Well, if that’s the Cotterell treasure, I can’t give it much! I don’t see why the Barmouth people wanted to lay hands on it, or why Sir Peter and his precious James Sampson were so eager to get away with it. Why, it’s regular junk-shop stuff. I don’t suppose the whole collection, if they’d sold it at auction, would have fetched enough to feed a soldier a week.”
Ben looked very much crestfallen. He fingered the suits, the snuff-box, the platters. “No,” he said, “it does seem mighty queer. And to think that Sampson brought these things over here, intending to take them away in a boat! I don’t understand it at all.”
“Never mind, Benjie.” Tom slapped his friend on the shoulder. “You found the chest anyway.”
“That’s right. You did,” said David. “You worked out the puzzle. It isn’t your fault if the treasure was just old junk.”
Ben was scratching his head. “But surely Sir Peter did have some valuable plate,” he argued. “The people of Barmouth knew that. Then what did he do with it?”
“Maybe he melted it down himself,” said David. “Anyhow it isn’t in that chest.”
“That’s so.” Ben picked up the snuff-box and stuck it in his pocket. “Where’s the Professor?”
“He went up to the house. Said he was going to write a letter,” Tom answered. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, old sport. I’ll take you out in theArgoand let you have some fishing.”
The chest was shut again and pushed back into the pocket. Ben regained his fishing-rod and tackle, and the three embarked in the sailboat. And presently the satisfaction of pulling flounders on board made Ben forget everything else.
When they returned to camp, with a fine catch of fish, they found John Tuckerman busy preparing dinner. Ben told his story, while Tuckerman listened with the greatest interest. “It does seem odd,” he said, when Ben had finished. “Most peculiar, in fact.” He mused a moment, his eyes regarding the water. “But then my good old ancestor Sir Peter was an odd kind of fish. I wonder now—do you suppose he could possibly have been planning to have a joke at the expense of his Barmouth neighbors?”
“You mean,” said Tom, “that he might have hid those things expecting the neighbors to find them?”
Tuckerman nodded. “It might have been so. Perhaps he, or James Sampson, even expected the men in the boat that was waiting off shore to find where Sampson hid the chest.”
“But why all this puzzle then about the pieces of parchment Ben found in the house?” asked David.
“Well, I’ll admit,” said Tuckerman with a smile, “that it’s not as clear as a pikestaff. Only Sir Peter does seem to have liked his joke. However, the bacon’s sizzling.” Brandishing a fork in his hand, he bent over the frying pan.
That afternoon Tuckerman said that he had an important letter to mail, and the campers sailed to Barmouth. Tuckerman went to the post-office, and each of the boys dropped in on his family. Ben had a chat with his mother, then told her he must do an errand. This took him into a side street, where there were a number of small, unpretentious shops.
He stopped before a window that was filled with old furniture, andirons, odds and ends of china. He opened the door, and a little bell tinkled somewhere back in the house, and after a moment a small, wizened-faced man, wearing a big blue checked apron, came into the room.
“Afternoon, Mr. Haskins,” said Ben.
“It’s Ben Sully, ain’t it?” said the proprietor. “Well, are you goin’ to get married, an’ want a nice set of furniture to go to housekeepin’ with?”
“Not to-day, Mr. Haskins.” Ben acknowledged the joke with a grin. “No, sir, I’m more interested just as present in what you call antiques.”
“Antiques, eh? Well, what was you thinkin’ of wantin’? I’ve some nice three-legged kettles, a soup tureen that came over in theMayflower, an ivory back-scratcher that hails from India. Just look about, an’ tell me what you want.”
“I want you to tell me something about this.” Ben put his hand in his pocket and drew out the snuffbox he had taken from the Cotterell chest.
“This?” Mr. Haskins took the snuff-box, pulled his spectacles down from his forehead on to his nose, walked nearer the window, and peered at the small silver box.
“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked after a moment.
“Is it a real old one?”
“Certainly it is. See that monogram? That’s the finest embossed work.” Mr. Haskins gave a chuckle. “I ought to know about that box, I ought.”
“Why ought you?” asked Ben.
“Well, you see, this here particular snuff-box has been in my shop some time. I sold it to a customer just about a week ago.”
“I thought perhaps you had,” said Ben, trying hard not to show his excitement.
The information that Ben obtained that afternoon from Mr. Haskins concerning his sale of the snuff-box gave a new direction to his thoughts. He could not follow up this new clue just yet, however, without telling the others, and this he didn’t want to do. They would be waiting for him aboard theArgo, and so, after a fifteen-minute talk with the shopkeeper, he hurried away to join them at the wharf.
One other thing he did, however, before the sailboat left Barmouth, and that was to get a canoe he owned out from a shed on the waterfront and fasten it behind theArgo. If he had theRed Roverwith him—he had laboriously painted that name in orange letters on a scarlet background on the canoe—he would be able to come and go about the harbor as he wished and to leave the island without explaining his plans, as he would have to do if he wanted to take the sailboat.
“What’s the idea?” asked David, who never overlooked a chance to ask a question. “Are you going to teach the Professor how to paddle a canoe?”
Ben nodded. “I thought that ought to be part of his education. TheRed Rover’ssteady enough for any beginner to paddle.”
Tuckerman looked askance at the little craft bobbing up and down in the wake of theArgo. “Any canoe’s unsteady enough for me to upset in, I guess. However, I like Ben’s idea. It was thoughtful of you, my lad.”
At that they all laughed, for whatever Ben’s reason had been for wanting the canoe at the island it was fairly obvious that he was not taking it there to further John Tuckerman’s seafaring education.
That evening, however, Tuckerman reminded Ben of his suggestion. The water was calm, the breeze was light. “How about a paddle?” he asked. “Just along the shore? I promise not to rock the boat.”
“Righto,” said Ben. “Come on.”
They went to the landing-stage at the pier and put the canoe in the water. Ben got in at the stern and balanced the boat while Tuckerman gingerly stepped in and squatted down at the bow.
“Not much room for long legs,” said Tuckerman. “I’ll have to tie mine up in a bow.”
“You’ll get used to it soon,” encouraged Ben. “I’ll do the steering. All you have to do is to put your paddle in, give a long, slow push, and take it out again.”
“Sounds easy enough.” Tuckerman tried to shift the position of his knees, with the result that the canoe rolled over almost far enough to ship a gallon of water. He threw his weight the other way, and the canoe nearly capsized.
“Plague take it!” he muttered. “It’s worse than walking a tight-rope!”
“Easy there, easy,” laughed Ben. “First rule in a canoe is never to move quickly. When you shift your weight, do it slowly. Pretty soon it’ll come as natural as riding a bicycle.”
“Riding a balky horse, you mean,” said Tuckerman. “All right; I’ll remember.” He dipped the tip of his paddle into the water and gave a tiny shove.
Ben gave a long sweep with his paddle, a dexterous twist at the end of the stroke, and theRed Roverfloated smoothly away from the landing-stage.
With Ben’s coaching, Tuckerman soon was able to paddle fairly well. He found it somewhat difficult to keep the bow evenly balanced, but as Ben anticipated his movements and shifted automatically from side to side, Tuckerman gained confidence and soon was sitting steady.
They paddled along shore, past the camp and on to the upper end of the island. Tuckerman, feeling more and more at ease, was delighted with the motion, with the gentle swish of the water, with the still, starlit night, with the panorama of beach and cliffs and woods as they floated by.
“Let’s go on around the island,” he suggested. “This isn’t real work at all.”
Ben smiled to himself. He knew that Tuckerman would discover next morning several muscles in his back and shoulders that he wasn’t accustomed to feeling. But the night was perfect for a paddle. “All right,” he agreed. “No, don’t you try to do any steering. The man in the stern does that.” With a couple of twists he turned the bow to the north. “There,” he said, “there’s the cliff where Sampson hid the chest in the pocket.”
Tuckerman turned to look. TheRed Roverwobbled, slanted.
Ben shifted and righted her quickly. “Hi there!” he warned.
“My mistake,” said the penitent Tuckerman. “I see that it won’t do for me to think of two things at once when I’m out on this lily-pad.”
“Paddle—quickly now,” Ben ordered. “But not too quickly. There’s a rip off that ledge.”
They passed the rip and came into smoother water. Presently they were on the ocean side of the island. “There’s the creek where we saw the footprints,” said Ben.
“Don’t point out anything else to me,” said Tuckerman. “If I move my left leg I can’t get it back in place.”
By the time they reached the southern end of the island the bow-paddler felt as if the muscles of his knees were tied in hard knots. “Do you mind,” he said in a tone of apology, “if I stop paddling for a couple of minutes and unwind myself? I’ll move very slowly.”
“Go ahead,” said Ben. “I’ll balance the canoe.”
Tuckerman pushed himself back, then very carefully unwound his long legs, stretched them out with an exclamation of relief, rubbed the muscles, and then readjusted himself in a new and more comfortable position. “I suppose to be a really proficient canoeist,” he observed, “one ought to be made of rubber. There—how’s that? Didn’t I do it cleverly?”
“Wonderful!” said Ben.
Tuckerman picked up his paddle again, and, proud of his ability to move without rocking the boat, stuck the paddle in the water and gave a mighty sweep. The bow swung around, rocked, tilted; Tuckerman pressed his arm hard on the left-hand gunwale.
“Hold on, Professor!” cried Ben. “We don’t want to head out into the ocean. Keep your paddle out of the water. Steady there!” With alternate strokes to right and left Ben soon had the canoe back on its course parallel to the shore.
“Iama duffer,” muttered Tuckerman contritely.
“Oh no, you’re not,” said Ben. “You’re doing very well. Only you must remember to let the stern man do the steering. A little more practice and you’ll find theRed Roveras easy to manage as falling off a log.”
“Falling off a log is good,” was Tuckerman’s comment. “Falling into the water would be more like it.”
They rounded the lower end of the island and came back on the bay side. They had almost reached the landing-stage when Ben said, “See, there’s a light at Cotterell Hall. It’s in the front door. It looks like a pocket flashlight. I suppose Tom and David went up there to get something.”
Cautiously Tuckerman looked in the direction of the house. There was a small circle of light. It moved away from the door; after a minute it shone through a window.
“I thought I locked the doors,” he said. “However, they may have climbed in through a window.”
The light disappeared. The canoe floated smoothly up to the stage, and Ben held it level while Tuckerman climbed out. Ben jumped up lightly. Then they both pulled theRed Roverout and turned it bottom side up.
They went up the walk to the house. The front door was shut, and when Tuckerman turned the knob he found that the door was locked. He opened it with his own key, and the two went in. The hall and the rooms were dark, there was no sound of voices or footsteps anywhere.
“That’s funny,” said Tuckerman. “We didn’t see Tom and David come down the path. Maybe they went out the back way.”
But the kitchen door was locked, and when the two opened it and looked out there was no sign of the others leaving in that direction.
“I wonder what they’ve been up to?” said Ben. “Playing some joke perhaps.”
They returned to the camp, and there were Tom and David, toasting marshmallows on long sticks over a bed of hot coals.
“We were betting ten to one,” said David, “that you’d come back nice and wet. Want to dry your clothes at the fire?”
“No, thanks,” answered Tuckerman. “We’ve been all round the island, and we didn’t ship a thimbleful of water.”
Tom glanced at Ben. “The Professor hasn’t been fooling us, has he? He didn’t know all about handling a canoe, did he?”
“No,” said Ben with a smile. “He didn’t know all about handling a canoe when we started. But he knows almost everything about it now.” Then, as he sat down cross-legged on the grass, Ben said carelessly, “We saw your light in the house. I suppose you climbed in through a window.”
“Saw our light in the house?” Tom echoed. “What are you giving us?”
His tone was perfectly sincere. Ben saw that he wasn’t joking.
“Well, we certainly saw some light,” Tuckerman stated. “It looked like a pocket flashlight, at the front door and at one of the windows.”
“Not guilty,” said David. “Are you sure it wasn’t a firefly?”
“You two have been right here ever since we left?” asked Ben.
“Yes,” answered the two in chorus.
“And you haven’t seen anyone land, or heard anyone?” Ben continued.
“No,” came the chorus.
Ben looked at Tuckerman. “Well, someone was in the house. How about that, Professor?”
“Somebody was. But I can’t imagine what they could have been doing. I don’t suppose they were thieves.”
“It’s my opinion,” said David sagely, “that they were hunting for the famous Cotterell treasure. And now that you’ve found it, Benjie, I’d suggest that you put up a big placard, stating ‘The treasure has been found. No seekers need apply.’”
“Very good,” said Ben. “Only the real treasure hasn’t been found, you see.”
“What!” exclaimed David.
“No,” said Ben, “that’s my humble opinion.” And then, as if he wanted to change the subject, he added, “I’m going to toast one large, juicy marshmallow, and then I’m going to turn in.”
Half-an-hour later the moon, riding up in the sky, looked down through the branches and saw that the four campers were sound asleep. There was the lap-lap of waves, the gentle purring noise as the water washed over pebbles, and in the tops of the pines a soft lullaby of the breeze.
Tom stirred, turned, opened his eyes. It seemed to him that something had waked him. He looked about; there was only the familiar scene. He gave a satisfied grunt and curled his head in the hollow of his arm. Then he looked around again to make sure that they had put out all the embers of the fire. And at some distance through the woods, in the direction of the pier, he saw a light that moved.
Immediately he remembered what Ben and Tuckerman had said about seeing a light in the house. Noiselessly he got up, pulled on his shoes and stuck his arms in his jacket. Through the woods he stole, stealthy as an Indian. The light had disappeared, but he thought he heard the sound of feet on the planks of the pier.
He came to the trees nearest to the clearing about Cotterell Hall. The house was dark; there was no sound or light in the neighborhood. But he was convinced that there had been someone there, and presently he darted forward and crossed the open space to the shelter of the porch.
After a few minutes he stole to the corner of the house, and now his search was rewarded. Someone was leaving by the kitchen door. In the moonlight he counted three figures. They were heading away from the shore, toward the grove at the back; he guessed that they intended to take the path that led down to the creek.
Tom followed them at a distance. They went through the woods, and now he saw the moonlight on the water. They had reached the head of the creek, but they didn’t stop there. They went on along the bank to the higher shore where the creek flowed into the ocean. Then for the first time Tom noticed the silver tip of a sail. Lying flat behind a bush, he watched the three men go to the rim of the shore, and, one after another, slide over the edge where the boat waited.
He wanted to see that boat, to get a closer view of the men; but there were no bushes between him and the shore. Now the tip of the sail was bobbing, now it was filling out; presently it was moving to the southward, a white wing, still as a floating gull.
He crept forward and watched. The boat was stealing away, soon she was only a dancing speck of white in the glittering moonpath. He had no way of identifying her or of making out her crew. He noted that she did not turn or tack when she came to the lower end of the island, but held on to a course that would bring her south along the main shore.
Tom stood up and eased his feelings by a long whistle. “What were they doing here? It must be something mighty important,” he said aloud.
No answer occurred to him, and after watching the sail until it disappeared in the distance he turned and walked back to the house.
He tried both the doors; they were locked. He looked at the lower windows; they were all closed. He went down to the pier; theArgowas there and theRed Rover; there was nothing to tell him what these night-time prowlers had been doing.
He went back by the beach to the camp. As he stepped up on to the bank Ben opened his eyes and sat up. “Hello,” he said sleepily. “Why, Tom, what are you doing?”
“Sh-ssh,” murmured Tom.
Ben rubbed his eyes, crawled out of his bed, caught Tom’s arm, and pulled him down to the beach. “What were you doing?” he demanded in an insistent whisper.
“Well, I saw a light, and I went to find out what it was.”
“Yes? And you saw them, did you?”
“Saw whom, Benjie?”
“Saw the pirates, did you?”
“The pirates! You’re half-asleep. What are you talking about?”
Ben nodded his head. “Oh, I know something about them.”
“Well, I saw three men. They went away in a sailboat.”
“Who were they? What did they look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get very close.”
“I wish you’d taken me along with you. I’ll bet I’d have found out something.”
That nettled Tom, and he answered more loudly, “Oh, you would, would you? I thought you knew all about them.”
“Sh-ssh,” muttered Ben. But David had wakened now, and his voice boomed out, “What are you two lobsters quarreling over?”
“Nothing,” said Tom. “Keep quiet, or you’ll wake the Professor.”
Tuckerman sat up. “You don’t mean to say it’s morning!” he exclaimed.
“No, it’s not,” Tom answered. “Can’t a fellow take a stroll in the moonlight without rousing the whole town?”
“Stroll in the moonlight!” chuckled David.
“Go on with your beauty sleep, Professor. That’s what I’m going to do. Let the two lobsters fight it out.”
“All right,” said the sleepy Tuckerman, nestling down again.
Tom turned to Ben. “So you know something about these pirates, do you?” he asked. “What were they doing here?”
“That,” said Ben, “is going to take some thinking. You see what you can find out, and I’ll see what I can. They won’t be back here to-night. And I’m too doggone sleepy to argue anyhow.”
Ben, having explained to the other three campers that he had important business to attend to in Barmouth, set out in theRed Roverdirectly after breakfast the next morning. He paddled the canoe across the bay, landed at the town wharf, and went up the main street to Barmouth’s one good hotel. He knew the clerk, Mr. Pollock, and after saying “Good morning” very politely, he helped himself to a small folded automobile map from a pile that lay on the counter for anyone to take.
“Going motoring, Ben?” asked the clerk. “Seems to me I heard you were camping on Cotterell’s Island. How are things over there?”
“Fine,” said Ben; and in return he promptly asked a question. “Had many automobile parties for dinner the past few days?”
“Quite a lot. Yes, business is pretty good. They like our special broiled lobster dinners.”
Ben leaned on the counter, copying the familiar manner he had noted in hotel guests. “You had a party on Tuesday, didn’t you? A big red car, with a Massachusetts license, driven by a man in green-checked knickerbockers?”
“Expect me to remember that?” Nevertheless, Mr. Pollock scratched his chin and considered the question. “Yes, seems to me I do recall such a party. Somebody said those knickerbockers were loud enough to be heard all the way to Boston.” The clerk thumbed the pages of the hotel register and presently pointed out a name. “That’s the fellow, Joseph Hastings. He comes from Cleveland, Ohio. There were four in his party.”
“And he came in a big red car, with a silver eagle on the radiator cap?” Ben persisted.
“Well, now, I can’t say as to that.” But Mr. Pollock, being a good-natured man and having nothing else to do at the moment, scratched his chin again, and again considered. “I do think of something. He told me he’d punctured a tire and asked me the best place to go to buy a new one.”
Ben nodded. “I suppose you told him Hammond’s?”
“You’re right. I did. Frank Hammond is a good friend of mine.”
Then Ben changed the conversation to the subject of the big league pennant race, in which the clerk was very much interested, and after some further chat, departed from the hotel.
Frank Hammond knew Ben also, and was not too busy that morning to exchange a few words with him. After a number of questions about the state of the roads in the neighborhood of Barmouth, Ben said, “Mr. Pollock tells me you sold a tire to Joseph Hastings, of Cleveland, Ohio, Tuesday of this week.”
“That’s so,” said Mr. Hammond, “I did. I sold him a couple of those big Vulcan tires for his rear wheels. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I don’t know him very well,” Ben evaded. “But I hear he’s a fine fellow. Is he touring along the coast?”
“No. He said he was staying at a place called the Gables, down on the Cape Ann Road. Wonderful car he’s got. He told me he’d had it built according to his own ideas.”
“Big red car, with a silver eagle on the radiator cap?”
“That’s the bird. Yes, sir, he must be a millionaire.”
When he left the dealer in automobile supplies Ben went to his uncle’s house and secured the loan of a small, ramshackle car he had often driven before. He made sure that the car had plenty of gasoline and oil, that the radiator was full of water, and he took a look at the tires. Then he drove south from Barmouth over the State Road.
It was a fine day, and many cars were out. Ben kept a watchful eye for such a car as that of Joseph Hastings, but none answering the description passed him. So he jogged along until he came to the fork of the Cape Ann Road and turned into it. There were fewer automobiles here, the road was not made for speeding, the little car bounced about a good deal going over ruts, and rattled like a load of tinware.
He met a boy on a bicycle and asked him if he knew a place called the Gables.
“Down the road a couple of miles,” the boy told him. “Big house with a ship for a weather-vane.”
Ben thanked him and drove on. Pretty soon he saw the weather-vane on a roof to the left of the road.
The Gables had a wide lawn, stretching down to a stone wall. The entrance to the drive was at the southern end, and the gateposts were flanked with larches. Ben drove to the gate, and stopped. So far his plan had been simple; now he was undecided what course to follow next.
He was musing over this when a voice hailed him.
“Give you greetings, sir. May I ask what you’re pondering over?”
The words were so peculiar that Ben looked around in surprise. A young man had stepped out from among the trees and was nodding at him.
“Why—good-morning,” said Ben.
“Has your car run out of juice?”
The man came up, a broad smile on his face. He himself looked very much like any sunburned fellow; but his costume was most peculiar. He wore a tight-fitting jacket of green, open at the throat, without any necktie. His knee-breeches were green, too, and so were his stockings, and on his low brown shoes were large brass buckles.
“No,” said Ben, with an answering smile, for there was a twinkle in the stranger’s eye as if he knew some joke, “I’ve gasoline enough to run this car all day. I’ll admit it isn’t the very latest model—not what you’d call a show car—but we do get wonderful mileage per gallon of gas.”
“Don’t make any apologies for your equipage,” said the gentleman in green. “Many a valiant knight has ridden on a steed that wouldn’t have taken the blue ribbon at the horse show. Don Quixote, for example. You remember him, of course? The Spanish cavalier who rode forth to tilt at windmills?”
“Yes,” said Ben with a laugh. And then, seeing that the man was friendly, he added, “That’s a wonderful suit of clothes you’re wearing.”
“You like it?” The owner looked down at his costume. “I designed it myself. It seems to me an improvement on the usual thing. And now, kind sir, since you tell me that your steed has plenty of fodder, may I ask how you happen to be sitting here on such a fine day?”
“This place is called the Gables, isn’t it?” asked Ben. “Mr. Joseph Hastings lives here?”
“Right you are,” answered the man. “But Mr. Hastings isn’t at home this morning. Did you have business with him?”
“In a way. I wanted to find out if he’d lost a silver snuff-box.”
“A snuff-box? That’s interesting. But I don’t think Joseph Hastings takes snuff.”
Ben drew the box from his pocket. The man in green looked at it. “Now where did you find this?” he asked.
“On an island in Barmouth Harbor,” said Ben. “Cotterell’s Island, it’s called.”
“Well!” exclaimed the man. “Well, well—you don’t say so!” He looked at the boy in the car with a new interest. “So that’s where you come from, is it?” He returned the snuff-box. “May I be so inquisitive as to ask your name?”
“Benjamin Sully.”
“Thank you. My own appellation is Roderick Fitzhugh. If you have no objection, Mr. Sully, I should greatly enjoy the pleasure of riding with you.”
Ben didn’t know what to say; and Mr. Fitzhugh evidently took his silence for consent, for he immediately hopped into the seat beside the driver.
“That’s all right,” said Ben; “but you see I wasn’t thinking of riding anywhere. I came to find out whether Mr. Hastings had lost a snuff-box on Cotterell’s Island.”
“Just so. But you can’t find that out, as he’s not at home at present. And meantime I suggest that we go on a little adventure. A fine day, a steed with plenty of gasoline, and two gentlemen looking for amusement.”
Ben was mystified. “What sort of adventure?” he asked.
“Well, what would you say to hunting for hooked-rugs?”
“Hooked-rugs?” Ben laughed; he was now so much amused at Roderick Fitzhugh’s company that he wanted to see more of him. “Do they grow on bushes?”
“No. They grow in these thrifty Yankee cottages. I’ll tell you where to go.”
Ben started the engine and drove on. At his companion’s direction he soon turned into a by-road that led westward.
Roderick Fitzhugh nodded toward a cottage, in the yard of which a woman was scattering grain to a flock of chickens. “There is a likely-looking hunting-ground,” he said. “Please stop when you come to the gate. I will exchange a few words with this respectable lady.”
The car stopped, making its customary noise of clattering tinware as Ben put on the brake. The woman looked round, and in the usual neighborly fashion of farmers walked over to the gate.
“Morning,” she said.
“Good morning to you, Madam,” responded Roderick Fitzhugh. “You have a fine flock of hens.”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the man in the green clothes as if she didn’t know exactly what to make of him.
“My friend and I,” continued Fitzhugh, “were just discussing the subject of hooked-rugs. As soon as I saw you I said, ‘There’s a woman who knows all about them.’” His tone was so deferential that anyone would have been pleased to be addressed in such a manner.
The woman smiled. “Well, now, I don’t know as how I know all about them; but I do have a few old rugs. Been in the family some time.”
“You see!” exclaimed Fitzhugh, turning to Ben. And to the woman he added, “Would it be possible for my friend and me to have a look at them?”
“Surely it would. But they’re not the new shiny kind you can buy at the stores in the city.”
Fitzhugh and Ben descended and followed the woman indoors. Presently they were viewing half-a-dozen antique rugs, all of the hooked variety, that the woman collected from the upstairs rooms.
Ben looked on with interest and amusement while his new friend discussed the rugs with their owner. And after listening to Fitzhugh’s admiration for these things that she evidently regarded as rather faded and only fit for service in bedrooms and attic, the woman said, “I’d be pleased to have you take one, if you care to.”
“Oh, madam, you are too generous,” Fitzhugh answered. “And yet I should like to have one. That medium-sized one, with the purple border. I’d be glad to pay five dollars for it.”
“Why, it’s not worth that much.”
“It is to me,” said Fitzhugh, and he brought out a five-dollar bill from his trouser pocket and laid it on the table.
With the rug they returned to the car. As they drove on again Fitzhugh said, “They used to tell me, when I was a small boy, that you could take one egg from a nest, and if there were several others left the mother bird wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t know whether that’s so. But I’m certain this good woman won’t miss that rug very much. So my conscience is easy, though I got that prize at a bargain. Now, Mr. Benjamin Sully, what do you say? Isn’t hunting for hooked-rugs exciting?”
It was fun to hunt them with this amusing companion. Fitzhugh collected three more at three other houses, paying five dollars for each. At the third house the farmer and his wife and children were just sitting down to dinner and the strangers were invited to join them. They had an excellent meal, during which the man in green did almost all the talking, and when they returned to the car and started on again he rubbed his hands gleefully and said, “Mr. Benjamin Sully, it isn’t so hard to find adventures if you look for them, is it?”
“Well,” Ben answered, “this is all very well; but I set out this morning to see Mr. Hastings and learn if he’d lost a snuff-box.”
“That’s so, you did. Joseph Hastings—a silver snuff-box—found on Cotterell’s Island. What makes you think that the snuff-box you found there belonged to Joseph Hastings?”
Ben considered how much to tell this Roderick Fitzhugh, and finally decided to supply him with more facts. “The snuff-box was bought by Mr. Hastings at a shop in Barmouth, and I found it yesterday in a chest hidden in a crevice in the rocks on the island. Why did he put it there?”
The man in green beamed with delight. “In a treasure chest? Why, that’s splendid!” He looked at Ben with new approval in his eyes. “So you’re mixed up in a real adventure, are you? Treasure hidden in the rocks—on an island! Why, that’s magnificent! No wonder you didn’t get excited over my tame hooked-rugs. Turn the car about, and drive back to the Gables. We must investigate this.”
Half-an-hour later the little car turned in between the gate-posts at the Gables. It clattered up the drive to the front of the house. On the wide porch were at least a dozen people, men and women; and when they saw the occupants of the car they gave a shout of welcome.
“Hello, here’s the lad in green!”
“We thought you’d been kidnapped!”
“Where’d you find the jitney?”
“Hope you’ve had some lunch!”
“We thought you’d been arrested as a suspicious character in those clothes!”
These were some of the exclamations.
The man got out of the car and threw his bundle of rugs on the steps of the porch. “My good friends,” he said, “Roderick Fitzhugh has been adventuring, and there’s his booty. Four beautiful hooked-rugs to add to the collection. And this is Mr. Benjamin Sully. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sully has found a silver snuff-box belonging to Joseph Hastings in a treasure chest on Cotterel’s Island. What do you think of that?”
There was another chorus of exclamations, expressive of great surprise.
“Mr. Sully,” the man in green continued, “if you’ll get down from your steed we will partake of a long glass of lemonade—two glasses to be exact.”
Ben climbed down and went up the steps. And then he noticed that all the people on the porch were dressed in quaint costumes, as milkmaids or archers or foresters. He looked at Fitzhugh, and the latter nodded. “Queer crowd, aren’t they?” said Fitzhugh. “However, they won’t bite.”
That same morning, while Ben had been hunting for the owner of the red automobile with the silver eagle on the radiator cap, Tom and David and John Tuckerman had sailed down to Camp Amoussock in theArgo. They found the boys at the camp in their bathing-suits, practicing for some water-sports that were to be held that week. A raft, with a spring-board, was moored off shore, and from this boys were diving and turning somersaults, backward and forward, like acrobats in a circus.
Other boys were swimming, practising for races, and still others were paddling round in tubs, trying to steer with their feet while they propelled the tubs forward by splashing the water with their hands.
“There,” said John Tuckerman, as he saw a fat youngster revolving round and round in a tub, “that’s the game for me. I believe, with my long arms and legs, that I’d make a hit at it.”
The fat boy splashed too hard, and the tub went over neatly. There was a shout of laughter as the boy bobbed up in the water and tried to turn the slippery tub rightside up again. This was hard work; the tub went round and round, continually evading his fingers; and finally he swam to shore, pushing the tub before him.
“No,” said Tuckerman, “that isn’t the game for me. I used to be pretty good at picking up a pea in a tablespoon, but that was on dry land. When it comes to wrestling with a tub in the water—” He gave an expressive shrug—“I’d rather let the fishes do it.”
TheArgolanded, and the three guests were provided with bathing-suits from the camp’s supply. For half-an-hour they swam and dived and perched on the raft, watching the boys in tubs. Then a bugle sounded on shore, telling them it was time to get ready for dinner.
The guests did full justice to dinner, sitting between Mr. Perkins, the Chief Counsellor, and Lanky Larry. Afterwards Mr. Perkins and John Tuckerman had a chat, while Lanky invited Tom and David to take a walk along the shore.
“There’s a queer sort of place a couple of miles to the south,” said Lanky. “It’s a cove with a lot of shanties. Fishermen used to go there; there are boats and nets lying around; but I think it must be deserted. I saw some men there one day last week, but they didn’t look like fishermen.”
“Lead us to it,” said David. “Deserted villages are right in our line.”
The path along the shore brought them to the cove. A little tidal river ran inland, wandering up into marshes. On each side of the river was a stony beach, and a rickety bridge, with a single handrail, connected the banks of the stream. Small weatherbeaten shacks, doors and shutters sagging outward, fishing-dories, rusty anchors, lobster-pots, a few nets with round black buoys, these cluttered up either shore.
“Nice place, if it wasn’t for the shanties,” said David, regarding the cove.
“I found a chap painting here one day,” said Lanky. “He told me it made a great picture; he liked the shanties first-rate.”
“Funny what things painters like,” chuckled David. “The more ramshackle a house is, the more they want to paint it.”
They went down a rocky path to the nearer beach, and sat on the bottom of an upturned scow. As they were chatting they heard the creak of a door, opening on rusty hinges. A man came out from one of the nearer shacks. His clothes were fairly new, he wore a brown slouch hat and tan shoes—evidently he was not a fisherman; neither was he a farmer nor a common loafer; he looked as if he came from a town. He was smoking a small briar pipe.
“What are you doing here?” The man’s tone was a little peremptory, though not exactly surly.
David enjoyed such a question. With a pleasant, friendly smile he answered, “Just sitting here and thinking.”
“That’s all you’re doing, eh?”
“It is at present,” David answered. “What are you doing yourself?”
The man frowned; looked up the creek, looked across at the opposite shore. “Nobody lives here now,” he stated after a minute. “Sometimes I come and fish from that bridge.”
“What’s happened to the place?” asked Lanky.
“I don’t know. Only nobody comes here now.”
“Well, we came this afternoon,” said David. “You see, we’re explorers.”
“You won’t find anything to explore.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
The man shot a glance at David, not a very amiable glance. And with that he walked to the bridge, crossed it, and went into the huddle of shacks on the other bank.
“Pleasant sort of customer,” said Lanky.
“He’d make a cow laugh,” said Tom.
“He didn’t like our being here,” observed David, “Now I wonder why.”
“He wants it all to himself,” said Lanky. “He must be some sort of hermit.”
“And just for that,” said David, “I feel like sitting right here on this scow till he gets more hospitable.”
As a matter of fact, however, sitting on the upturned boat and watching the waves surge gently up over the stony beach and then withdraw in a network of little rivulets that made the stones and pebbles glisten was not entertaining enough to keep the three boys there more than five minutes. Tom got up. “I’m going over the bridge,” he said. “If our friend the hermit doesn’t like it—well, he’ll just have to lump it.”
The bridge shook as the three of them stepped upon it. “For goodness sake, don’t lean against that railing,” Lanky warned. “Stop bouncing up and down as you walk, Dave, or you’ll have us all in the water.”
David went on bouncing; but in spite of that they reached the other shore safely. No one was to be seen here; somewhere in the clutter of shanties the man had disappeared.
“I’d like to know what that precious hermit is up to,” said David, and he walked toward the shacks that were furthest from the bridge.
Lanky and Tom investigated in the other direction, where a clump of oaks came close down to the stream. At the edge of the trees was a shack a little larger and better built than the others. The door was open, and the two boys looked in. “Hello!” exclaimed Tom. “What’s that on the bench? It looks like jewelry.”
A brown cloak, a brown hat with a red feather stuck at one side, and a chain of gold links with a large green stone as a pendant, were piled on the bench.
Tom picked up the ornament. “It’s imitation,” he said. He looked around the room. “Why, there’s a whole wardrobe of queer hats and cloaks and things here!”
“So there is,” said Lanky. “What do you suppose they are? Actors’ things?”
“Actors’ things?” Tom glanced at the outfit of costumes that hung on pegs on one wall. “They’re certainly not fishermen’s things. But what would actors be doing in this cove?”
“I don’t know,” Lanky admitted. “It is funny, isn’t it?”
They looked at the costumes more closely, and then went out of the shack. “I wonder if that man knows something about them,” Lanky suggested. “He might have been keeping guard.”
“Let’s see what Dave’s doing,” said Tom, and started along the bank.
He had only taken a few steps, however, when he stopped. “Here comes a boat around the point. Let’s beat it, and see what they do.”
The two slipped back of a cabin, then to a shelter of bushes. Crouching there, they watched the boat nose its bow into the cove.
The boat was a dory. One man was rowing, two others sat in the stern. They looked no more like the usual type of fishermen than had the man whom the boys had first encountered.
With considerable splashing the boat was rowed up to the bridge. The tide was low, and there was hardly enough water at that point to float the dory. The rower shipped his oars and tied the boat to the railing of the bridge. Meantime the other two men stepped over the side and came up on to the beach.
All three headed toward the shack that the boys had just left and went in at the door.
“They seem to know their way about,” whispered Lanky. “I wonder why Dave’s friend didn’t come down to meet them.”
In a few minutes the three men came out again, and now they had some of the cloaks and hats in their hands. Each put on a cloak and a hat and strutted about; they laughed and joked at each other.
“What in the world——” muttered Lanky. “Actors. I told you,” Tom whispered. “They look like highwaymen.”
The men now seemed satisfied with their costumes. Hats pulled well down on their heads and cloaks thrown over their shoulders, they took the path toward the clump of oaks.
“I say,” muttered Lanky, “what do you suppose they’re going to do? Hold up some farmer’s wagon? Come on, I want to find out what’s their game.”
“I’d better get Dave,” said Tom. “You follow them. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
“All right.”
Lanky went one way, and Tom the other.
Tom ran over the stones between the shanties, and looked in at the open doors; but he did not see David nor the man they had met first. He gave the whistle he used to call David in Barmouth. There was no answer. The shacks on this side of the stream all appeared deserted.
David was not to be found, and Tom supposed he must have gone further along the shore. Meantime he would be losing the chance of finding Lanky, so after whistling several times more Tom turned and ran toward the oaks.
The path along the cove was well marked, it traversed the high ground at the edge of the marshes and turned into fairly thick woods. At a dog-trot Tom soon came up with Lanky. “I couldn’t find Dave,” he grunted. “I guess he found the hermit so fascinating he went for a stroll with him.”
“I’ve kept my eye on the three highwaymen,” said Lanky. “This seems to be the only path around here, marshes on one side and the forest primeval on the other.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “I ought to be getting back to camp; but I can’t leave an adventure like this. It wouldn’t be decent, would it?”
“It would not,” Tom assented. “If they try to blame you, you refer them to me. I’ll say that we thought those fellows were up to some kind of mischief, and that it seemed to be our duty to investigate them. And that’s telling the truth; they’re what Benjie would call ‘suspicious characters.’”
Every once in a while the boys would catch a glimpse of one or other of the cloaked men through the vista of the trees. Then the boys would stop and let the others get well ahead of them. And presently they reached a dusty road and saw the men tramping along to the south.
Tom and Lanky had to come out in the open then, but, as Lanky pointed out, there was no reason why the men, if they saw them, should think the two boys were at all interested in what they were doing. They walked a half-mile without encountering anyone, and then the boys saw an automobile coming toward the three in front.
“Now,” said Tom, “we’ll see if they’re highwaymen. This is a nice quiet place to hold up a car.”
But the men disappeared by jumping over a fence that ran along the woods on the left. The automobile, a man and a woman in it, dashed by the boys, leaving a cloud of dust.
“So ho!” exclaimed Lanky, “our friends don’t want to be seen! Suppose we make ourselves scarce till they come back to the road.”
The boys hid in the woods, and presently the three men reappeared on the road. Tom and Lanky followed suit, and the march was resumed.
A mile more, and the men came to a crossroad. They turned toward the west. When the boys reached the crossroad Lanky stopped. “This is a private lane,” he said. “See, it leads up to that barn and stable. And there’s a big house. Our friends are going in the back way.”
There was a screen of trees at the corner. The boys went along the lane until the screen gave way to a close-cropped hedge. Here they had a view of a wide, velvety lawn and the large house, red-striped awnings at the windows, on a gently-rising slope.
“Hello!” exclaimed Tom. “Look there!”
There was no heed of his telling Lanky to look. Lanky was staring at that part of the lawn that was shielded by the trees at the corner. There was a small, one-story house that looked as if it were made of cardboard, a very picturesque building, brightly painted to resemble cross-timbers, with two little lattice windows. And grouped about the grass in front of the house were a dozen or so men and women, all of them dressed in fancy costumes, looking as if they had just stepped out of a picture book or down from the stage of a theatre.
“My eye!” said Tom. “What is it? A fancy dress party?”
“Looks like a Robin Hood scene,” said Lanky. “Some of them have bows and arrows. See that girl in pink working that churn.” He watched for a moment; then added, “So that’s why our friends the highwaymen came along this way.”
“They don’t seem to have joined the crowd,” said Tom. “Why didn’t they jump over the hedge?”
The people on the lawn were too busy to notice the boys in the lane. Lanky nodded. “That’s so. And it seems to me, Tom, that that crowd are a different type from our three friends. These people belong here; but I don’t think the others do.”
The boys looked up the lane. The three men had entered at a gate that led to the rear of the big house.
“Let’s see what they’re doing,” said Tom.
Along the lane went the two boys, and turned in at the gate.
The men had disappeared. Lanky shook his head. “It’s queer, mighty queer. Of course those fellows may belong here. But why should they come all the way from that cove? And bring those hats and cloaks with them?” He scratched his ear, as he did when he was puzzled.
“Come along,” said Tom. “Nobody’ll throw us out.”
They crossed the lawn to the steps of the porch. A man came out from the front door, a man in livery, apparently the butler. He held himself very straight, he was an angular person, with a fishy eye.
“Yes?” he said; and though the word was a short one he managed to express in it a cold sense of disapproval.
“Er—” began Tom, “we would like to know if three men, wearing brown cloaks and big slouch hats, just came into this house.”
The butler shrugged his shoulders. “There are gentlemen and ladies wearing every kind of costume coming in and going out all the time,” he answered stiffly.
That seemed to put an end to further questions; but Lanky, after considering the matter for a moment, inquired, “Whose place is this?”
“It belongs to Mr. Hastings,” said the butler, eyeing the boys most disapprovingly. “He is not at home at present. But I can answer any questions for him.”
Neither Lanky nor Tom, however, could think of any questions to ask. It seemed absurd to tell this fishy-eyed servant that they had followed the three men from the cove. And after all the men might have a perfect right to have entered the house.
“Very well,” said Tom, and turned on his heel, followed by Lanky.
But when they were out in the lane again, Lanky said, “I’m going to wait around here a little longer. That servant’s a fool. Anybody could put anything over on him.”
So they climbed up on the stone wall on the other side of the lane and sat there like two sentries.