Part 11

“Thieves who broke into Mr. Fitzhugh’s house!” cried Milly. “Oh, do tell us about that!”

Then the whole story came out, and when she had heard it all Milly said positively, “I think Ben’s right. They’re planning to steal something from your island.”

“Hope they don’t take our cooking outfit,” said Tom.

“Or any of my fine old colonial furniture,” added Tuckerman.

“Oh, no,” scoffed David. “It’s the treasure they’re after.”

“Don’t you want to take our watch-dog back with you?” said Sarah. “He’s fine at biting tramps.”

There was a laugh from the crowd. And they were still talking of ways of protecting the island from prowlers when the sailboat ran up to the wharf.

The campers escorted the girls to their homes and then went back to the harbor.

On the waterfront they encountered a man—he had been a sea-captain in his day—smoking a pipe and regarding the lights of the harbor. He knew the boys. “Hello, Tom,” he said, “I hear you’re out on the island, hunting for Sir Peter’s treasure.”

“Well, we’re camping on the island,” Tom admitted.

“Haven’t found the treasure yet, have you?” The mariner chuckled. “There’s treasure hid all along the coast, if you believe the stories. I was brought up on yarns about treasures, Captain Kidd’s and others. And I’ve hunted for ’em, too. But I never laid my hands on none. Howsomever, I always thought there might be something to the story about Sir Peter. But it’s one thing to think there’s a treasure, and another to lay hands on it.”

“Where would you look?” asked Ben.

The mariner reflected. “Well, if I was hiding a treasure I’d put it where I could get it if I wanted it in a hurry. Seems to me I’d pick out a place in the chimney-breast. I’ve heard of folks hiding things in places like that.”

“Seems to me we’ve got to pull the house down,” said David. “And then like as not we wouldn’t find it.”

“Might be so,” the mariner agreed. “It don’t pay to take too much trouble hunting for things like that. But some people just have to.”

The four embarked in the _Argo_. “Ben’s one of the people that just have to,” said David. “I guess he’ll pull the house down.”

“I hadn’t thought of the chimney-breast,” said Ben. “We’d better look there to-morrow.”

“Go to it, Tige,” laughed David. “We’ll get out the pick-ax and crow-bar.”

XVII—PETER COTTERELL

Next morning the four campers, following the suggestion made by the sea-captain on the Barmouth wharf, resumed their search for the Cotterell treasure. David treated the whole matter as a joke; he thought that either the story about Sir Peter having hidden his silver plate was a legend without any foundation in fact, or that one of the family had found the treasure and disposed of it. Tom leaned to the same opinion, although he did not say so as openly as did David, perhaps because he saw that both John Tuckerman and Ben thought the treasure was yet to be found. Ben was still as positive as ever, and argued that if Sir Peter’s plate had ever been discovered that fact would certainly have been mentioned in Crusty Christopher’s notebooks.

They examined the chimney-breast in the kitchen and dining-room, looking for any possible hiding-place. They went all over the house again, looking for any secret door or panel that they might have missed before. They tapped the walls and they measured them; but nowhere could they figure out such a place as they were hunting. Finally Tuckerman said, “I don’t see how we can search anywhere else, unless we do as Dave suggested—pull the house down—and I don’t want to do that.”

“The house is worth more than the treasure,” said Tom.

“That’s so,” Tuckerman agreed. He frowned and bit his lip. “I don’t like to be stumped, that’s the long and short of it. I don’t like to admit that I can’t work out the puzzle.”

“Puzzles never bother me,” said David. “I think they’re stupid things. I never want to know the answer to any of the problems in the algebra books. What good does it do you to know them? Of course some people get so hipped over knowing the answers they can’t eat till they find them out—whether a dog or a rabbit will reach a given point first, things like that, or about men rowing a boat against the tide; but they don’t get me the least little bit excited. Leave them to Benjie, I say.”

And that was what they did. They left Ben up in the attic, the last room they had searched. Attics fascinated Ben. In a way they were like puzzles; there were so many odds and ends that needed putting together. He walked idly about, looking at chairs and tables that had lost some of their legs, at statuettes that were broken and disfigured, until he came to the window that opened to the east. There he stopped in a brown study.

A distant sail caught his eye. It reminded him of something. Oh, yes, from the window he could see the line of the little island where they had found the fishing-smack at anchor the night before. He couldn’t tell if this sail belonged to the smack; it was too far away; but the sight of it started a train of thought he had been working over that morning.

He went downstairs and was glad to find that the others had left the house. In the living-room he took the two pieces of parchment from the drawer of the secretary and carefully copied the writing on them on a large sheet of paper. This he laid on the lid of the desk and put an inkstand on the paper. Then he returned the pieces of parchment to the drawer.

Satisfied with this, he went outdoors and crossed the island to the beach where he had found the chest. He sat on a log, and waited patiently. Presently he saw a sail, to the east; and this time he felt fairly sure that it was the same fishing-smack that they had chased the previous night.

He jumped up and began to burrow in the crevice between the rocks. He did not attempt to pull the chest out; it was too heavy for him to do that unaided; but he kicked his heels and pushed himself in. And after a while he pushed himself out again and stood up. Looking at the smack, he decided that she was near enough for anyone on her deck to have witnessed his strange performance.

The next step in his plan came when the dishes had been washed after dinner. He proposed that they should sail over to the little island and see if the smack was still in the neighborhood.

“After the thieves, are you?” asked David. “Now see here, my lad, if we should find them, what then? Are you going to step aboard and tell them they’re arrested?”

“Dave’s had enough of his friend Sam,” said Tom. “He thinks if Sam meets him again he’ll get a belaying-pin on the back of his head.”

“Benjie wants to argue with them,” said David. “I’ll admit I’d like to get square with the rascal, but I don’t see how we can do it that way.”

“If Dave’s sure it’s the same boat,” suggested Tom, “we might notify the police at Barmouth.”

“Well,” said Ben, “the only way to make sure that Dave’s right is to sail around and look at her in daylight.”

“That sounds sensible,” Tuckerman agreed. “We needn’t get into any kind of a scrap with them.”

So the _Argo_ set sail and cruised eastward; but although she rounded the other island several times that afternoon her crew caught no sight of the bark they were looking for.

When they got back to their own island they found Lanky Larry and Bill Crawford fishing from the pier. The canoe in which they had paddled over from Camp Amoussock floated at the landing-stage.

“If you’re after cunners,” said Ben, “you ought to try the rocks on the ocean side; if it’s flounders you’re trying to tempt you won’t find them near the pier.”

“We didn’t really come over here to fish,” responded Bill, “but we always carry a couple of lines in the canoe; that is, when it doesn’t upset. We came over to invite you four fellows to the water sports to-morrow morning. We’ve got a fine program, and you can enter any of the events when you get there.”

“I guess the Professor will want to enter the tub-race,” said Tom with a grin.

“Maybe I will,” agreed Tuckerman. “Well, mates, how about it? The invitation sounds very good to me.”

Tom and David both nodded and said they would like to go. “You’d better count me out of it,” said Ben. “I’ve got a date for to-morrow.”

“Date?” inquired Tom. “What sort of a date? With a lady or a man?”

“A date with myself.” Ben looked a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve got something on hand I meant to do in the morning.”

“Shucks!” exclaimed David. “All right, Bill, we’ll be over right after breakfast. And we’ll bring Benjie along. You might enter him in the fancy diving contest.”

Bill and Lanky pulled in their fishing-lines and embarked in their canoe. The campers started to get supper. But Ben, making an excuse that he thought he must have mislaid his pocket-knife in the house, hurried through the woods to the beach at the northern end. So far as he could see no one had been there since he had left in the morning; the chest was still in the crevice between the rocks.

That evening Ben prowled about the island. He went to Cotterell Hall, he went to the beach at the north again, he kept a watchful eye for sails in any quarter. When he came back to camp the other three had turned in. And being very sleepy, he followed their example.

He was up at dawn next morning, and again made his rounds. The paper he had placed on the lid of the secretary was apparently untouched, the chest was still in the crevice. Breakfast was waiting when he returned. “Now, Benjie,” said David, “get busy with the bacon. We’re going over to Camp Amoussock, and we want you to show those fellows your famous flip-flap.”

“You go along without me,” Ben urged.

“No, sir,” said David. “This is a sporting proposition, and it’s up to every man to do his bit.”

So Ben went along with the others.

All of Camp Amoussock was in bathing-suits, and the four guests were shortly attired likewise. Then began all sorts of water sports. Tom and David and Ben went in for most of the swimming races and the diving contests. Tom took second place in the fifty-yard race, and Ben won the competition for fancy diving. When they came to the tub-race John Tuckerman entered his name.

Amid shouts and cat-calls a dozen tubs set out from the float. The race was to be around a buoy and back to the starting-place. Tuckerman paddled easily, keeping his tub out of the course most of the others were taking. Two tubs jostled, and two boys were upset into the water. Bill Crawford rounded the buoy first, then a small, red-headed boy who sat very still, barely patting the water with careful finger-tips.

“Here comes the Professor!” cried Tom from the beach. “Keep it up, keep it up, Professor! You’re doing wonders!”

Tuckerman reached the buoy. He had found it fairly easy to keep a straight course, but now he had to steer to the left. To do this he tried to give a sidewise sweep with his foot. The tub rocked, rolled. He attempted to counter-balance; and then he was in the water, splashing about and trying to get hold of the tub.

He flopped up on one side, only to slip over on the other. The tub might have been greased, so difficult was it to make the round thing stay in one position for more than a minute. At last he gave up trying to make it behave, and swam, pushing it before him, until he could touch bottom with his feet.

“Never mind, Professor,” said David, as the bedraggled Tuckerman walked up on the beach. “Many a man has found a tub-race his Waterloo.”

There were cheers from the float, and all turned to look. Bill Crawford and the red-headed boy were now neck and neck. Someone shouted, “Now’s your time to spurt, Bill!”

Bill spurted. His tub lost its balance; Bill somersaulted backward into the water. The red-headed boy just managed to avoid Bill’s splashing and paddled along more cautiously than ever, hardly touching the water now, just directing his course with his fingers and toes.

Up to the float he came. He grasped the edge, and a moment later the boy and the tub were on the float, and the race was won.

“The Tortoise wins!” cried Lanky. “Good old Tortoise! He may be slow, but he gets there away ahead of the Hare.”

Then came dinner, and then the _Argo_ set sail again. “Now, Benjie,” said David, “you can keep that date you were telling us about. My word, but you look impatient.”

Ben was impatient. He sat in the bow, keeping a lookout for a certain sail.

There were no boats to be seen, however, nearer than a three-masted schooner that moved like a pasteboard ship along the rim of the horizon. The _Argo_ appeared to have that part of the off-shore ocean entirely to herself, and except for the swish of the water against her side there was no noise to break the quiet of the summer afternoon.

The island stood out in its shades of green against the brilliant blue sky. The house was a patch of white as the sailboat drew up to the pier. The landing made, the four campers went ashore. Ben started up the path toward the house, and the others, as people are apt to do when someone leads the way, followed without any definite object in mind.

Ben had almost reached the front steps when the door of Cotterell Hall opened. He stopped in surprise; and so did the other three.

A man in colonial costume, buff-colored coat and breeches, with a three-cornered hat in his hand, stepped out at the front door.

The man made a bow and held out his hat in a gesture of welcome. “I give you a good-day, gentlemen,” he said. “What fortunate chance brings you to Peter Cotterell’s door?”

Tuckerman took it on himself to answer. Returning the bow, he said, “The good ship _Argo_ has brought four adventurers to your island, worthy sir. We trust we do not trespass.”

The gentleman in buff stood with his hat at his hip. “You’re not from the town of Barmouth?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said Tuckerman, and added, “Your island looked so inviting that we made bold to come ashore.”

“I’m glad you’re not from Barmouth,” said the gentleman. “I have no stomach for those folks, rebels against His Britannic Majesty’s lawful government. To visitors such as you my island and my house are always open. Will you come in and refresh yourselves?”

“You are very good, Sir Peter,” said Tuckerman, with a smile.

“Why do you call me ‘Sir Peter’?”

“I understood that was your title.”

The gentleman frowned. “I believe that some of the rebels call me that, because of my loyalty to the King of England. However, it is an honorable title. I have no objection. Yes,” he added, “you may call me Sir Peter. I like the sound.”

“Well then, Sir Peter,” said Tuckerman, “I think we’ll accept your invitation with the greatest pleasure.”

The gentleman on the step stood aside, and the four marched into the house. Sir Peter indicated a room on the left. They went into the large drawing-room, and Ben, casting a hasty glance at the secretary, saw that the paper he had placed on the lid was still there.

“Be seated,” said Sir Peter. He stood for a moment near the portrait on the wall, and the campers saw how much his face and figure and the cut of his clothes resembled those of the man in the picture. He caught their eyes comparing him with the portrait. “Yes, my picture,” he said. “It’s considered a rather fair likeness.” And he added deprecatingly, “Of course no one can ever judge a likeness of himself.”

He pulled a bell-rope that hung by the big fireplace. “I can offer you a glass of negus,” he continued. “Something unusual, that I get from the Barbadoes.”

A moment later a dark-skinned servant—mahogany-hued in fact—came into the room and received his master’s orders.

“Will any of you take snuff?” asked Sir Peter, when the servant had withdrawn. He produced a small silver snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket.

He passed the snuff-box, but each of his guests declined. Ben, looking up with a grin, asked, “Does your servant come from the Barbadoes, Sir Peter?”

“Why yes, he does.” Sir Peter helped himself to a pinch of snuff, then dusted his coat with a fine cambric handkerchief. “An excellent servant, too. Indeed, I am much pleased with all my service, from my steward James Sampson down.”

“James Sampson!” exclaimed Ben, his eyes dancing. “Where have I heard that name before?”

At this point the servant reappeared, bearing a lacquered tray on which were five glasses and a decanter. He set the tray on a table, and as Sir Peter filled the glasses the servant handed them to the guests.

The refreshment was delicious. None of the boys had ever tasted anything like it before, but all of them declared it fine. Sir Peter poured a second glass all round, and then, when the servant had left again, the gentleman in buff seated himself in an arm-chair, swung one leg over the other, and beamed at his new friends. “As you say, the negus is excellent,” he observed, “but several glasses will, to use a somewhat common expression, begin to make one see things.”

“We’re seeing things already,” put in David.

Sir Peter disregarded this remark. He twisted his glass in his fingers. “As it happens, I’m particularly glad that you arrived here to-day,” he continued. “I have a number of guests here. I am giving an entertainment this evening. The guests are at present on the upper floors.”

There was a light tap of heels in the hall. Sir Peter looked toward the door. “Here comes one of them—a lady.” He stood up, and the campers did likewise. “Ah, it’s Mistress Penelope Boothby,” Sir Peter declared with a bow.

A young woman stood in the doorway, a very lovely young woman in a flowered silk gown. She courtsied down to the floor, then with a light laugh exclaimed, “Oh la, Peter Cotterell, whom have you here? What odd costumes the gentlemen wear!”

XVIII—THE PIRATES ASHORE

The gentleman in buff coat and breeches turned from the young woman in the doorway to the four campers, who as they glanced at their own rough outing clothes did look like a line of embarrassed schoolboys standing in front of a teacher.

“Now that you mention it, Penelope,” said Peter Cotterell, “I do note a difference between the garments of these lads and this gentleman and those we are accustomed to seeing worn by our neighbors. I understand, however, that they come from a distance, and one would hardly expect costumes to be the same in all the colonies. It occurs to me that possibly my new guests might like to make fresh toilets in one of the rooms abovestairs. I have a large wardrobe, gentlemen, and it is yours to choose from.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Tom. “I wonder if you have anything big enough to fit my friend David Norton?”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” said Tuckerman. “I’m sure I could pick out something much better looking than these togs.”

The young woman stepped into the room. Her blue eyes were very merry as she looked at the awkward row. “I think an apricot coat would suit this one,” she said, nodding at Ben. “Something in puce this one,” she indicated Tom. “Lavender for him,” she waved at Tuckerman. “And for the fourth—let me see—” She squinted her eyes and tilted her head on one side.

“A beautiful green,” Ben suggested. “The color of seaweed in water.”

Miss Boothby laughed, and David flushed a magnificent scarlet.

“He certainly oughtn’t to wear a red coat,” said Peter Cotterell. “He’d be too much all of one color.”

“I like these things I’ve got on,” said David. “They mayn’t be very good-looking, but they suit me first rate.”

“Oh, I like them, too,” agreed Miss Boothby, and her quick smile made David flush again, this time at the stubbornness of his tone.

“If you care to look at my wardrobe—” Cotterell resumed. “Ah, here is James Sampson now.”

At the door appeared a man in chocolate-colored coat and breeches, his brown hair tied in a queue.

“My steward,” stated Cotterell.

“So you’re Sampson, are you?” asked Ben. “I’ve heard of you, and I’m glad to make your acquaintance. I think I’ve seen some of your handwriting.”

“He writes a legible hand,” said Cotterell. “He keeps some of my accounts. Sampson, please show my guests to the rooms upstairs. They desire to change their attire.”

Miss Boothby touched David’s arm. “For my sake wear a suit of green,” she whispered.

David blushed. “Oh, very well,” he said awkwardly. “But I guess I’ll look like a frog.”

They followed Sampson into the hall and up the stairs. As they passed open doors they saw a number of people in gay, colonial clothes. All through the house there was the hum of voices.

Sampson conducted them into the attic, where many suits and dresses hung on pegs along the walls.

“Here is the wardrobe,” he said. “I think you will find everything you may need. And yonder is a mirror.” With a bow he withdrew.

“Well,” exclaimed David, when the servant was out of earshot, “what do you make of all this?”

“Sir Peter is certainly much more amiable than I’d been led to suppose,” mused Tuckerman. “There’s nothing of the hermit about him.”

“He’s a bird!” chuckled Tom. “I’ll bet he gives us a mighty fine supper.”

“I don’t blame him a bit for wanting to keep those roughnecks over in Barmouth from melting up his silver,” Ben asserted.

“See here, you fellows,” broke in David, “I want to know what’s the game.”

“Game?” echoed Ben.

“Game?” said Tom. “What do you mean?”

“Game?” repeated Tuckerman, and his tone was a trifle indignant. “I don’t call it a game when a gentleman like Sir Peter Cotterell invites us to his party.”

David sat down on a sofa. “All right, all right. I’m the goat, as usual. Fetch me a green coat and trousers.”

“I daresay Miss Boothby will dance with you,” Tom cheered him.

“_You_ may like this sort of thing,” said David, “but it’s not in my line.”

Ben threw a coat at him. “Take that. Hello, here’s a shelf full of wigs. Want to try a white one, Dave?”

For the next five minutes they looked about the room, at the coats and the breeches and waistcoats, at the wigs and the other articles that made up Sir Peter’s wardrobe.

Then they began to try on the costumes, seeking for the proper sizes. Ben could find nothing that suited him exactly. And while they were trying on different coats, there came a sound of singing from downstairs.

Ben, holding a coat in each hand, went into the hall and leaned over the banisters. Men and women were singing a quaint, old-fashioned song in the dining-room. The tune was fascinating, at times it sounded like a jig, at times there were different parts for the different voices. Ben listened, nodding his head in rhythm with the music. “You ought to hear this,” he called over his shoulder to the three in the attic. “It’s a regular musical show.”

The others came out into the hall. Tuckerman beat time on the banister with a powdered wig he had been trying to squeeze on his head. Tom, putting his hands on David’s shoulders, began to dance to the tune.

With a grin, Ben turned and went back to the attic. “I’ll beat them to it,” he muttered, and flinging down the two coats he was holding he took a yellow satin coat, embroidered with silver lace, from a peg on the wall.

This coat was a fine sample of the tailor’s art. But Ben, having taken it down, stared at the peg from which it had hung, and at the wall behind it.

He gave an exclamation, a low whistle of surprise. He knocked on the wall with his knuckles. He glanced through the open door, and saw that the others were still occupied with the singing. He backed away from the wall, still keeping his eyes on it. And then he stumbled over a footstool and sat down with a bump on the floor.

He got up and laid the embroidered coat on a chair by the window. He looked outdoors. And then for the second time in five minutes he uttered an exclamation. The fishing-smack was standing close inshore on the eastern side of the island. He could see her moving slowly to the north, her canvas plainly visible above the tops of the trees.

“Gee whillikins!” muttered Ben. “I’ll bet my scheme worked!”

Another minute and he was out in the hall. The singing downstairs had stopped and there was a clapping of hands.

“Come here!” ordered Ben.