Part 5

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.

The _Argo_, 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.

VII—THE TIGERS PLAY CAMP AMOUSSOCK

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 the _Argo_ put 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!”

VIII—THE CANOE

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 the _Argo_ was 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. The _Argo_ zigzagged 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.