Part 7

Ben nodded. “I thought that ought to be part of his education. The _Red Rover’s_ steady enough for any beginner to paddle.”

Tuckerman looked askance at the little craft bobbing up and down in the wake of the _Argo_. “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 the _Red Rover_ floated 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. The _Red Rover_ wobbled, 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.

“I _am_ a 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 the _Red Rover_ as 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 the _Red Rover_ out 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; the _Argo_ was there and the _Red 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.”

XI—THE MAN IN GREEN

Ben, having explained to the other three campers that he had important business to attend to in Barmouth, set out in the _Red Rover_ directly 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.