Chapter II: Part 2

It was Ben who, searching through a cupboard at one side of the fireplace in the front room at the Hall, pulled out a package of old letters and gave a shout of joy. “Hi there, see what I’ve found!” he cried as he untied the bundle and threw the envelopes loosely on the table.

“What is it? Old letters,” said Tom, glancing at the yellowing paper.

“Postage stamps!” triumphed Ben. “Some of the earliest issues! I’ll bet you never saw that St. Louis stamp with the two bears on it before.”

“Humph,” said David. “Postage stamps! No one collects them now.”

But John Tuckerman looked over Ben’s shoulder, and then snatched up one of the letters. “You’re right, Benjamin. These are rare ones. I shouldn’t wonder if they were worth a great deal of money.”

It was not, however, the money value of the things in the house that interested Tuckerman. It was partly his love of old things, especially of things that were beautifully made, and partly his feeling that they had belonged to the Cotterells for so long, the Cotterells being his own people. “Uncle Christopher owned all these things,” he said. “Poor Uncle Christopher. He was stiff-necked, no doubt; but he had to suffer for it. I’ve found a book he wrote in, and I can see that he was too proud to sell his heirlooms, and that he had very little money, and didn’t want anyone to know how hard up he was. So he turned hermit. He didn’t really hate other people; he was simply so made up that he couldn’t mix with them on an equal footing.”

David pretended to regard the Cotterell family secret as a great joke, although he admitted that he was very much puzzled over what he called “the mystery of the lady with enormous feet.” On the same afternoon when Ben found the rare postage stamps, David, being alone with Tom in the front room, cocked an eye at the painted gentleman on the wall, and thus addressed him:

“Sir Peter, I don’t want to be disrespectful; but it does seem to me you were mighty tight with your silver when your good neighbors were doing their best to get the thirteen United States started. Or didn’t you really have the things they suspected you of having? You’ve got a long nose and a twinkle in your eye, and I’d say it mightn’t be beyond you to have your little game at the expense of Barmouth.”

Tom laughed. “You can’t judge Sir Peter by yourself, Dave.”

“Certainly not,” was the instant reply. “I’ll admit we are very different. Nothing could induce me to have my picture taken with a dog like that greyhound cuddling up against my shins. The good people of Barmouth didn’t have any greyhounds or any pie crust tables or gate-legged tables, or whatever kind of tables it is that the Professor finds so delightful, and they were envious, and rowed their boats out here, and tramped up to the door, probably looking for all the world like a gang of hayseeds.”

“Remember, Dave, your ancestors and mine were probably among them.”

“I’ll admit that also,” said David, “and for the sake of your feelings, Tom, I’ll take back that about their looking like hayseeds. Let me put it this way. A crowd of very nice looking, but temporarily cross and angry people—men and women, and possibly a few dogs—come up to the house here and demand to see the elegant Sir Peter. Sir Peter doesn’t want to see them; he doesn’t approve of them; he thinks that good old King George is just about the proper cheese to rule over him and his. But Sir Peter’s a gentleman—you can see that from his portrait—and he doesn’t want to disappoint the neighbors, who’ve come all the way out here in boats. So he takes a pinch of snuff and he whistles to his greyhound and he goes out on the front steps. He looks down along his nose at the people of Barmouth and his right eye twinkles—you notice, Tom, that it’s his right eye that’s the humorous one—and he says: ‘Friends and fellow citizens, come in and enjoy yourselves. The green and gold pineapple is over the door and Cotterell Hall is yours for the afternoon. But the silver plate you’re so anxious to lay your hands on isn’t here any more. It’s vanished, vamoosed, flown away; and the family are using the plain blue and white china kitchen set.’ Did they believe him?”

“No,” sang out Tom.

“Exactly,” agreed David, with a bow. “They rushed past him into the house, and they threw things about, and they buzzed around like a nest of hornets you happen to hit with a stick. But they didn’t find anything after all; and the reason is simple—there wasn’t anything of the sort they had in mind to find. It was just Sir Peter’s little joke. And it worked to perfection. Ever since people have been wondering what he did with the silverware he mentioned that day. Sir Peter, my opinion of you is that you were a first-class joker.”

“You may be right,” Tom assented, “but for goodness’ sake don’t rub that idea in on Mr. Tuckerman and Ben. They’re thrilled to the fingertips about there being a treasure hidden away somewhere.”

“Babes in the wood!” sniffed David. “I believe you could put almost anything over on the Professor if you dressed it up in old clothes.”

To the skeptical David and the inclined-to-be-skeptical Tom the other two now appeared. They had been in the apartment on the second floor that had been Christopher Cotterell’s bedroom and had been rummaging through a little secretary that stood between the windows. Tuckerman had a notebook in his hand. “These are jottings my uncle made from time to time,” he declared. “Here’s one. ‘As regards the saying that the hiding-place is just beyond the three pines that stand between two rocks where the sun goes down, I have scoured and scoured the island, and come to the opinion that the extreme southwestern point must be the place intended, although to-day there are only two pines there. I have dug at this place, but found only sand.’”

“Maybe we can find another place that answers that description,” said Ben hopefully. “And it stands to reason that the four of us can dig better than your Uncle Christopher, even if he had his servant to help him.”

David, under cover of his hand, winked at Tom, who pretended not to see him.

“Here’s another note,” Tuckerman continued. “‘Find the mahogany-hued man with the long, skinny legs and look in his breast pocket.’ That’s a saying my father handed down. What can it mean?”

“Mahogany-hued man with long, skinny legs,” echoed Ben.

“And a hooked nose and a scar across the left cheek,” chortled David. “Pirate stuff, of course. There’s always someone like that. I suppose he’s the fellow who hid the treasure on a dark, stormy night.”

Tuckerman gazed at the speaker with his big, owl-like eyes. “You may be right, although I rather thought of him as a faithful, old-fashioned serving-man, from whom Sir Peter had no secrets.”

David grinned; but how could anyone joke on a matter that Tuckerman took so seriously? “Have it your own way,” he said. “Probably you’re right. But hooked-nose pirate or faithful servant I don’t see how the mahogany one can be of much help to us here to-day.”

Tuckerman closed the notebook. “Suppose we go down to the southwestern point. At least we’ll get a good view of the sunset and freshen up for supper.”

When they came to that end of the island they found the ledges and neighboring sand covered with a vast array of sandpipers, all with their heads turned in the same direction, watching, as it were, a score or so of leaders, who stood out in front, closest to the water. Quietly though the four crept up, they were still a couple of dozen yards from the rear ranks when, with one accord and with as smooth a motion as though a sail were being drawn across the beach, the hundreds of little winged bodies rose in air and flew out across the waves.

“By Jove, that’s pretty!” said Tom. “They’re like ever so many bits of silver paper blowing about in the wind.”

So they were. Fascinated, the four watched the sandpipers. When the birds were tilted one way, on one tack, they could hardly be seen against the light, they actually disappeared. Then a tiny deflection, a dip and twist of the wings, and they were a network of silver, drawn this way, then that. They wheeled, they rose, they dropped; no human beings ever moved in such perfect precision; it was not as if they followed a leader, it was as if every single sandpiper of the hundreds knew instinctively what the bird just ahead of him would do. And at last they descended, like falling leaves, on a flat rock out in the water.

“I don’t see how they can do it,” sighed Ben. “We could drill and drill forever, and never get anything like that. Don’t tell me that sandpipers haven’t brains.”

“You bet your boots they have,” said David. “Fine little fellows! I don’t see how anybody can possibly want to shoot them.”

The little fellows rose again and went soaring off against the sunset sky.

Tuckerman drew a long breath. “You boys who live by the seashore have much to be thankful for. The pioneers who pushed inland must have been awfully homesick for just such sights as that. Gee whillikins! What a gorgeous sky! I could look at it for hours.”

His companions, however, had other things to do. They wanted to locate the two pines that stood between the two rocks. A short search discovered them. The trees, old and gnarled, twisted of branches on the eastern side, where the winter winds had lashed them, still stood like sentinels between the lichen-covered boulders, where Christopher Cotterell and doubtless others before him back to the days of Peter had surveyed them.

“They’re here all right,” said Ben. “What was it the notebook said? ‘I have dug at this place, but found only sand.’ Well, there’s plenty of sand—oodles of it. But if you ask my opinion, this isn’t the place to dig.”

“You’re lazy,” scoffed David. “Tell me, Mr. Man, why in your learned opinion isn’t this the right place to dig?”

“I’ve a hunch it isn’t,” answered Ben.

Tuckerman looked at the serious-faced small fellow, and suddenly gave a laugh. “I’ve got the same sort of a hunch myself. My uncle Christopher dug here and didn’t find anything. I don’t want to do his work all over again.”

They let it go at that, and slowly, with an eye to the sunset, which every moment grew more like a vast palette on which many colors were mixed, went back by the path through the woods that skirted the western shore. They reached the old house, and were passing it on their way to the camp when Tom abruptly halted. “I say, I saw something moving at that corner window on the second floor! Something white—yes, sir, it moved. I’ll take my word to that!”

All stopped and gazed at the house. The windows were closed, no curtain could have been blowing.

“Nonsense,” said David. “What you saw was the sunset reflected on the glass.”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t,” Tom retorted. And straightway he went up the graveled walk that led to the front door.

Now usually John Tuckerman had been careful to lock the door when he left the house, but this time he had forgotten. Tom turned the knob and pushed the door open.

They all went into the hall and stood there listening. Undoubtedly there was the sound of footsteps on the floor above.

“That sounds to me like a giggle,” whispered Ben.

“Sh-ssh,” warned David.

Footsteps tapped on the floor, were coming apparently toward the head of the staircase.

Then unmistakably there was a laugh, a light and merry laugh, in a feminine key.

In the silence that followed David’s voice rose. “The lady with the enormous feet!” he muttered.

A patter of feet and there came into view two ladies, two ladies in hoopskirts, with white stockings and little black slippers laced with black ribbons, and flowered silk waists and flat, mushroom-shaped hats with streamers falling behind. They stood at the head of the staircase and stared down at the four below.

“It’s Milly and Sally Hooper!” exclaimed Tom.

“Did I hear someone whisper ‘The lady with the enormous feet?’” Milly Hallett wrinkled her nose and stuck out the tip of her tongue. “Sarah, my dear, the gentlemen aren’t so gallant as they used to be. Whoever saw neater, sweeter slippers than these we have on!”

Slowly, with a hand to each side of their skirts, which swayed like great balloons, the two girls came down the stairs.

At the foot John Tuckerman stood, bowing. “Ladies, you greatly honor my poor house,” he declared.

“Who is the gentleman, Milly?” asked Sarah Hooper, a black-haired, black-eyed girl with scarlet ribbons to her hat.

“Faith, I think it must be one of the comely Cotterells,” said Milly. “What a fine sunburn he has!”

“John Tuckerman, at your service,” said that gentleman. “Nephew of Mr. Christopher.”

Milly Hallett’s blue eyes danced with delightful mischief. “And Mr. Tuckerman, who are the three extraordinary young persons standing in a row behind you? They do look so funny! Such remarkable clothes.”

David looked at Ben, and Ben looked at Tom, and Tom looked down at his khaki trousers, which still bore patches of white and green paint acquired a month ago when he was freshening up his canoe.

“Ladies, these are three experts,” Tuckerman explained. “The gentleman with the yellow hair and the zebra stripes on his trousers is an expert skipper, the one with the midnight hair and the rich mahogany skin is an expert fisherman, and the third—with the splendid red complexion and the curling locks—can cook a meal that will make you forget every other breakfast or dinner or supper you ever sat down to.”

“Really!” exclaimed Sarah. “Milly dear, something reminds me that it’s a long time since we tasted food.”

“I was just about to touch on that point,” said Tuckerman. “Will you do us the honor of breaking bread with us? That is, if you won’t injure your exquisite gowns by eating out of doors.”

“They can’t sit on the grass in those things,” Tom declared. “They’d ruin them for fair.”

“Oh, can’t we!” cried Milly and Sarah in chorus. “Just you watch us do it!”

And in spite of hoopskirts and tiny slippers and gingerly-perched hats the two girls ran to the front door and down the steps to the path. The other four, catching up with them, piloted them to camp.

On the way Milly explained. She had felt that she just had to find out what was going on at Cotterell’s Island—she had feared that bears or ghosts, mosquitoes or robbers might have made an end of her brother and his friends; so she had gotten Sally Hooper, and they had taken Sally’s father’s sailboat and sailed out to the island. They hadn’t seen the boys; but when they went up to the white house they found the front door unlocked. They went in and looked the place all over. In a room on the second floor they found oceans of clothes in chests and closets, and they simply had to try some of them on. Then they thought they’d surprise the campers. And they certainly had done that, she concluded, because she had never seen four people look so astonished as those four had when they saw Sally and her come to the top of the stairs.

In fifteen minutes supper was under way, a truly marvellous supper, for David was determined to show these skeptical girls what a howling cook he was. The guests were not allowed to soil their fingers; as a matter of fact they found they had their hands full with trying to manage their ridiculous hoopskirts and sit down in them without smashing the hoops. But they did contrive to seat themselves on a grassy bank, and Milly took off her slippers—which were horribly tight—and the two watched their four serving-men get supper, and occasionally put in a word or so of advice.

When each of the six had declared that they could not possibly eat a single additional pancake—no matter how much golden syrup was offered as an extra inducement—supper came to a conclusion, and Milly cast a reflective eye out on the water.

“Sally and I must be starting back,” she said with a sigh; “and I don’t suppose they’d let us land in Barmouth, dressed in these funny old clothes.”

Sarah Hooper looked at David, who sat cross-legged on the ground, resting after his labors. “You’re a very superior chef,” she admitted; “but I want to know what you meant when you heard us upstairs and murmured, ‘The lady with the enormous feet.’ Oh yes, I heard you; and those were the very words you used.”

David laughed. “I plead guilty. But I didn’t refer to either you or Milly. I was thinking of a little detective work we have on hand.”

Then he had to explain about the discovery of the very large footprints on the bank of the creek and the finding of a lady’s lavender-scented handkerchief, with the initials A. S. L., in the kitchen.

“Oh, I love mysteries!” said Sarah. “I’m always reading detective stories and working them out before the author tells you exactly what did happen.”

“There’s the man for you then,” said David, pointing at Ben. “Eats ’em alive, he does.”

“Huge footprints and a lady’s handkerchief,” murmured Milly. “That is a funny combination. But we really must go, or Sally’s mother and father will be sending out searching parties.”

They all walked back to the house, and the two girls went upstairs to change into their own clothes. When they came down again, much more comfortably dressed, they found the others in the big front room, where Tuckerman had lighted the candles.

“How lovely!” exclaimed the romantic Sarah. “I adore old furniture. What a duck of a divan! And that beautiful secretary.” She looked at a desk that stood in a corner, at the other end from the fireplace. “It’s mahogany, of course—and what perfect, long, fluted, shiny legs it has!”

“What’s that?” said Ben. “Say it again, and slower.”

“I tell you we must be going back,” declared Milly positively. “Never mind these ducky old things, Sally. Think of your waiting parents.”

So Sally had to go, and they all trooped down to the pier, where Mr. Hooper’s sailboat was bobbing about on the tide.

Tom insisted that he would take the _Argo_, to convoy the girls home; but Milly also insisted that he should do nothing of the kind; she knew how to handle a boat quite as well as her brother, the wind was right, the water smooth, and she had often sailed later in the evening than that. Nevertheless when Milly’s boat was out from the island, the campers embarked in the _Argo_ and sailed along after them, until the lights of Barmouth were visible right ahead. Then, with a good-night shout, the crew of the _Argo_ brought their craft about and headed back for the pier.

They walked through the moonlit woods to their camp, cleaned the dishes, and made things snug for the night. As Ben, seated on a log, pulled off his shoes, he said to Tom, who sat near him: “Did you hear what Sally said about that desk in the corner?”

“Duck of a thing—some such nonsense.”

“No. She said, ‘Mahogany, of course. And what long, fluted, shiny legs.’”

“Perhaps she did. I don’t remember.”

“Doesn’t that convey anything to your mind, Tom?”

“Can’t say it does. Mahogany—legs. Oh, I’m too sleepy to think of anything.”

“Well, it conveys something to me,” said Ben. “I think maybe I’ve got a clue, thanks to innocent Sally. I suppose it’s too late to go back to the house to-night?”

“It’s too late to go anywhere except to sleep,” answered Tom shortly. “I guess your clue will keep. If it’s got anything to do with Sir Peter’s treasure, it’s kept for a hundred years.”

Tom gave a gigantic yawn, and rolled over on to his bed.

But Ben lay awake for some time, until he got the sound of the lapping of waves on the beach mixed with John Tuckerman’s voice singing “Yo—heave—ho, my lads,” and then he fell asleep.

V—THE MAHOGANY MAN

Mr. Tuckerman was doing the crawl-stroke—slowly and laboriously, with almost as much splashing as a small paddle-wheel steamboat makes—but still very much better than he had been able to do it two days before. He was heading toward a rock, on which Tom, straight as an arrow and almost as brown as a chocolate drop, stood with his arms pointed outward, ready to dive.

Ben stood back of Tom, slapping his dripping thighs and hopping about on his toes. In the water David was floating, as comfortable and serene as a harbor seal taking an afternoon nap. “Look out, Professor,” he cautioned; “Tom might land on your head. He’s a terrible practical joker. Don’t you let him use you as a cushion.”

Tuckerman plowed along, gasping a little, his eyes fixed on the rock.

Tom dove, and came up alongside David. “If I was picking out a cushion, I’d take you. You’d make a bully springboard. Push right along, Mr. Tuckerman. You’re doing nobly.”

Ben gave a whoop. “Look out there!” Lithe as an eel, and seemingly made of rubber, he sprang from the rock, turned a somersault, and shot smoothly into the water. He reappeared, looking like a porpoise, his black hair all shiny, and with a few lusty flaps reached the rock again just as Tuckerman, breathless, put out his hands to clutch at the slippery side.

“You’re a regular flying-fish,” Ben complimented Tuckerman, as the latter, careful not to scrape too close against the rough edge of rock, drew himself slowly up to the level top. “I don’t believe any of your friends out in the plain country of Illinois would know you if they happened to see you now.”

“I don’t believe they would,” agreed Tuckerman, sitting down gingerly and embracing his knees with his hands. “I know I look like a red Indian, and I feel as if I’d got a thousand more muscles than I ever had before.”

“If you don’t mind——” said Ben; and putting his hands on Tuckerman’s shoulders he made a leap-frog jump over the latter’s head and splashed loudly into the water.

“Well,” said David, changing his position from floating to treading water, “I think the coffee must be boiling now. It’s time I dropped those eggs.” And with leisurely strokes he made for the beach, where he had thoughtfully left a Turkish towel beside his pile of clothes.

The others followed suit, and had soon arrayed themselves in the few garments they thought needful to wear in their island home. David poured the coffee and attended to the toast and eggs, which had been procured the day before from a farmer on the mainland. And as they ate, Ben propounded the question:

“Fellows, what was it Christopher Cotterell said about a mahogany man?”

“He said,” Tuckerman answered, “‘Find the mahogany-hued man with the long, skinny legs and look in his breast pocket.’”

“Exactly,” said Ben slowly. “Well, I’ve got an idea I know where to find that man.”

The other three looked at him in utter amazement. “The dickens you have, Benjie!” retorted Tom. “Why, he couldn’t be alive now.”

“Perhaps Ben thinks he’s a mummy,” suggested David, “or a piece of wood that’s turned to stone.”

“Maybe I do,” Ben chuckled. “You’re getting warm, old horse. Long, skinny legs—doesn’t that remind you of something? Haven’t you seen any that answer that description in this neighborhood?”

“You’re not referring to mine?” asked Tuckerman.

The breakfast-party laughed, the Professor wore such a look of injured dignity.

“No, sir, not to yours,” Ben said. “Yours are fat as a drum compared to those I have in mind.”

“I remember Ben mumbled something about this last night,” mused Tom. “But I was too sleepy to listen. He said something about Sally Hooper, too; something about her giving him an idea.”

Ben nodded. “So she did.”

“Didn’t I always claim that our Benjie was a real detective?” said David. “Clean up first; and then for the yarn.”

Breakfast things were put away in their box, and then the three turned to Ben. “Where’s your mahogany man?” they demanded in one voice.

“There’s no hurry,” was the tantalizing answer. “Perhaps I’d better go fishing first.”

Tom laid his hand on the other boy’s shoulder and twisted him around. “Lead us to him,” he commanded.

Ben shrugged. “Oh, very well. You’re more interested than you were last night. Come along, but don’t make any noise.”

He led them to Cotterell Hall. Tuckerman had locked the front door after the girls had left on the night before, and now he opened it with the key he kept in his trouser pocket.

Ben led them into the hall, and then into the big front room, which was now flooded with sunlight.

“Look around,” he announced; “and tell me what you see.”

They looked about the room with puzzled faces. “Rats!” exclaimed David. “I don’t see any man here.”

Ben glanced at Tuckerman. “Long, skinny, mahogany-colored legs,” he murmured.

“Not Sir Peter’s portrait?” said Tuckerman.

Ben walked across the room in the direction of the secretary. “When Sally came in here last night,” he explained, “she said something about this desk. ‘Mahogany, I suppose—and what long, fluted, shiny legs.’ Well, it has, hasn’t it?” He laid his hand on the secretary. “Mightn’t this be the man?”

“You’re joking,” Tom protested; while David looked from the desk to his friend’s serious face as if he thought Ben must be plain crazy.

Tuckerman, however, laid his hand also on the piece of furniture. “They liked their little joke in the old days,” he observed. “It might be, Ben. If that’s so——” He turned the small brass key in the lock of the lid, and pulling out the two supports on either side of the lower drawers let the lid down on them. “If that’s so; and this is the mahogany man—where’s his breast pocket?”

There were small drawers inside, and a row of pigeonholes to either side of a central compartment that was also locked by a key.

“Somewhere up in his chest,” said Ben.

Tuckerman pulled out the drawers and emptied their contents, small objects, keys, pencils, bits of sealing-wax, a few sheets of blank paper. He put his hand in the pigeonholes and drew out several bundles of letters. “I’ve been through all these things before,” he said with a shake of his head.

“That place in the middle,” Tom suggested.

“Only an ink-stand,” said Tuckerman; and unlocking the little door he drew forth a big glass inkstand with a brass top. That was all there was in the little cupboard; all the contents of the upper part of the secretary were arrayed on the lid.

“No go,” said David. “The man hasn’t anything in his pocket to give us any clue.”

“I must say,” said Tom, “it does seem ridiculous to me that anyone could have meant that desk——”

“I’ve heard,” mumbled Ben, who was paying no attention to what the others were saying, “that old desks have secret compartments. My grandfather has an old one that looks something like this. Let me see——” He slipped his hand into the pigeonhole on the right of the little door Tuckerman had unlocked, and began to feel around. “I say! Here’s something. It feels like a wooden spring.”

Tuckerman put his hand into the central compartment. “Push on the spring,” he directed.

Ben pushed and Tuckerman at the same moment pulled out the cupboard that had harbored the inkstand. It was a box that fitted snugly into the centre of the secretary.

“Well, that’s a great stunt,” said Tom. “It comes to pieces like a nest of drawers.”

The four, their heads close together, looked into the space from which the cupboard had come.

All they saw was an unvarnished piece of pine board, apparently the back of the desk.

“Looks like my grandfather’s,” said Ben. “Yes, there’s a couple of holes.” And putting his forefinger and thumb into two indentations in the wood at the back, he wriggled his hand around and drew out a small drawer.

“Empty!” he muttered, disappointed, holding the drawer so that the others could see.

Again he put his hand into the opening and drew out a second drawer that had been under the first one. This also was empty.

“One more chance.” He pulled out the bottom drawer. In this there was something. Holding it upside down, a small roll of paper fell out on the lid of the desk.

“A piece of parchment,” said Tuckerman, picking up the roll. He opened it out, holding it taut in his two hands.

All eyes focussed on the sheet, on which were scrawled, in a faint purplish ink, these lines:

I took the box
cliff where was
meaning to es
but they were
and so I hid
pocket in the
are two big
make a mark

Tuckerman read these words aloud, three times over. Then he gave a grunt. “Well, that’s that. And it’s not so very illuminating, is it?”

Ben took the parchment. “Somebody’s cut it across. See, the right hand words are close to the edge. How disgusting!”

David and Tom each handled the parchment, which was finally laid on the desk-lid, with the inkstand to keep it from curling up into its original tight roll.

David stroked his chin, pretending to be lost in thought. “Somebody took the box—to the cliff—but they were—and so somebody hid the box—in his pocket—there are two big—that make a mark. I gather from that line about the pocket that the box was pretty small.”

“It doesn’t say he hid it in his pocket,” Ben objected. “It might have been a pocket in the cliff just as well.”

“Who do you suppose he was?” asked Tom.

“Why, Peter Cotterell, of course,” David answered promptly.

“I don’t know about that,” said Tuckerman. “This handwriting doesn’t look like that of a man who was used to holding the pen. See how he’s gone over some of the letters several times, as if he wasn’t precisely sure how he ought to form them. Sir Peter was a well-educated gentleman. He must have known how to use a quill.”

“Perhaps he wanted to disguise his handwriting,” David suggested.

“Why would he want to do that?” Ben retorted. “Whoever wrote that meant to leave a record of what he’d done with the box. There wouldn’t be any sense in faking his handwriting—certainly not if he intended to hide the parchment away in a secret drawer of the desk.”

“What sense would there be in his cutting it in two then?” Tom inquired.

Tuckerman, who was sitting on the arm of a chair, threw back his head and laughed. “Here we are arguing about something that happened ever so long ago, and we haven’t the least idea why it happened this way.” He turned to the portrait on the wall and shook his finger at it. “You—or some of your household—knew how to make first-class puzzles, Sir Peter.” Then, as he swung around to the three boys, he added:

“My guess is that there’s a pocket in a cliff somewhere on this island, and that there is—or was—a box hidden in it.”

“Find the cliff,” said Tom.

Ben shook his head. “There are dozens of cliffs.”

“Well, you won’t find anything more in your mahogany man’s breast pocket,” Tom answered. “You can see for yourself it’s empty.”

“My idea is,” said David, “that we get the _Argo_ and sail round the island till we sight a likely-looking cliff.”

“That appeals to me,” agreed Tuckerman, “and Tom can give me another lesson in how to handle a boat.”

The parchment was put in its drawer, the three drawers replaced, the cupboard pushed back and caught by its spring, and the desk-lid lifted and locked.

“I’d a heap rather hunt for clues out of doors on a day like this,” said David.

But Ben sat down on a divan. “I want to do a little thinking, fellows. You go along without me. Maybe I’ll go fishing for dinners off the rocks after a while.”

They laughed at Ben; but he would not be dissuaded. He wanted to do some thinking, and he meant to. “Stubborn as a mule,” said Tom. “He gets his mind set on a thing, and dynamite won’t budge him.”

So the others went down to the sailboat; and presently Ben, getting up from the divan, went out and cut himself a stick of willow. He brought it back and began to whittle shavings all over the hardwood floor of Cotterell Hall. He had seen men down on the Barmouth docks whittle shavings for hours, and he had copied the habit. He found it a great help when he wanted to think things out.

VI—THE CLIPPER SHIP

Ben Sully was a boy who would rather work out a puzzle than do almost anything else. He had a tremendous amount of patience, which possibly explains why he was such a successful fisherman, since he could wait longer, dangling a piece of bait in the water, than nine out of ten fishes could resist the temptation to find out what the bait tasted like. Any kind of a _puzzle_, from cut out sections of cardboard that fitted together to make a picture all the way to ingenious contraptions of metal links that didn’t want to come apart, was a delight to Ben. He had boxes and boxes of them stored away in a closet at home. He had invented secret codes and cryptograms by the score, and when he was only ten years old had constructed a private language of twenty-five words that he had taught to Tom and David and which the three of them had used among themselves to the great admiration and envy of all the rest of their school.

Naturally then Ben felt that this _puzzle_ of Peter Cotterell’s treasure was right in his line, and the finding of the half-sheet of parchment whetted his appetite to discover more. He walked about the room, whittling shavings right and left, he sat down and kept on whittling, he stood up again, and since by now the willow-stick had been whittled down to almost nothing, he threw what was left in the fireplace.

That done, he went to a bookcase and took down from the shelf on top the old notebook that Tuckerman had found in his uncle’s bedroom. He thumbed the pages until he came to the place where Tuckerman had inserted a slip of paper. Ben read the words at the top of the page out loud. “Find the mahogany-hued man with the long, skinny legs and look in his breast pocket. That’s a saying my father handed down. What can it mean?” Ben looked at the desk. “Well, we’ve done that, anyhow.” He shook his head in deep thought. “I don’t understand why that piece of parchment wasn’t discovered before. They might not have taken the desk to be the mahogany man; but surely Crusty Christopher or his father would have known of those three little drawers. However, they might have found that writing and left it there. That’s possible, of course. Probably it didn’t tell them any more than it’s told us so far.”

Turning again to the notebook, he ran his eye down the page. Nothing but Christopher Cotterell’s comments on all sorts of subjects, nothing that interested Ben. He turned a page, two pages, another, and then his glance fell on this: “I’ve heard that the old clipper ship got some of the cargo that the mahogany man carried. But if she did, what use is that to us now? She sailed out of Barmouth Harbor during the Revolution.”

On and on down the page Ben’s eyes traveled, but lighted on nothing that caught his special attention. So he went back and reread that passage. Then he closed the book, replaced it on the shelf, stuck his hands in his pockets, and stared through the window.

“I wonder if there was a real mahogany man,” he mused, “and a real ship. There might have been. There were men from the West Indies in this part of the country in those days. One of them might have had valuables in his clothes, and part of the things he was guarding might have been carried off in the hold of a ship. Was there a real man, or was it that secretary? And how about the ship?”

Presently Ben walked around the drawing-room, as if he were searching for something. From there he went to the dining-room and the kitchen, and then upstairs to Christopher Cotterell’s bedroom. He looked into closets and behind curtains, he pulled open wardrobe doors and peered in at the shelves. But each time he shook his head, as much as to say: “There’s nothing there that I want.”

Under the slanting roof at the top of the house was an attic, already explored by Tuckerman and the boys. It was filled with every kind of thing, from an ancient lacquered Indian temple—the green and gold of the lacquer now sadly tarnished and chipped—to a collection of Red Men’s arrowheads, neatly fastened to a board by small straps of leather. Ben looked around at the strange medley of objects, thinking how many countries and how many different races of men had contributed to the furnishing of this attic; and then his roving eyes lighted on something that made them glisten—on a bracket against the wall sat the model of a ship.

Ben knew the model to be that of a Yankee clipper—three masts, loftily rigged, with three sky-sail yards, and a long mainyard. She was beautifully built, every detail complete, the deck and hull shining with varnish. “Hello,” sang out Ben, “clipper ship ahoy!” And pushing a box close against the wall he stepped up opposite the bracket.

In the deck of the model was a little lid. He pried this up with his knife-blade. There was just room for him to squeeze his fingers through, and when he drew them out again they held a small roll of paper.

“Yes,” said Ben, “it’s parchment,” and very much thrilled he took his find over to the window and smoothed it out.

The ink on this parchment was faint and purplish, like that on the sheet already found in the desk, and the left hand words were close to the edge. Ben read them aloud:

to the north
the boat
cape with it
off the shore
it in the
rocks. There
veins that
like a cross.
James Sampson.

“Good enough!” said Ben, and ran down the stairs to the first floor.

The little drawer in the secretary was again made to disgorge its half-sheet of parchment and Ben laid the two papers side by side on the desk-lid. They fitted perfectly; now their message was complete.

I took the box to the north
cliff where was the boat
meaning to escape with it
but they were off the shore
and so I hid it in the
pocket in the rocks. There
are two big veins that
make a mark like a cross.
James Sampson.

“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Ben, “though why anyone should cut James Sampson’s writing in two is more than I can understand.” He copied the words on a sheet of paper and put the two pieces of parchment in the secret drawer. “Now let’s see what we’ve got. Sampson meant to leave the island with his box at the northern end, but he saw some enemies waiting there, so he hid the box in a crevice where the rocks are marked like a cross. All right for Mr. Sampson. That’s easy sailing. But why didn’t some of the Cotterells find what was in the hold of that little ship’s model long before this? Funny—that is.” Again his brows bent in thought. “Was James Sampson the real mahogany man? Was there a real clipper ship?” At last he shook his head. “I don’t know. But at least I’ve found something.”

Ben left the house. It was noon, and warm. The others were sailing around the island; there was no knowing when they would be back. He debated whether to go fishing, and finally decided against it. Without any definite purpose in mind he took the path at the back of Cotterell Hall that led toward the little creek.

It was only a short distance across to the inlet where David and he had landed. He went through the bushes and trees until he saw the water before him. There was the creek and there was the marshy ground where they had found the footprints. He descended the bank to look at the marks again.

There were no footprints there now: they had utterly vanished!

Ben hunted along the edge of the creek, although he was positive where the marks had been. There was not a sign of them. There had been no rain to wash them out. The soggy ground was above the reach of the tide. There was only one explanation: someone had been there since David and he had landed and had carefully removed any sign of footsteps.

To discover footprints on a supposedly uninhabited shore is thrilling, but to discover that those footprints have disappeared is even more exciting. What did it mean? Well, to Ben it clearly indicated that the person who had made those marks in the first place had some very good reason for wanting no one to know that he had been there.

Cotterell’s treasure was an ancient mystery; but this was a new one, no older in fact than the day before yesterday. This was new matter over which to cudgel one’s brains, and Ben, sitting on the bank, gave deep consideration to it until he saw the sail of the _Argo_ creeping up from the south.

Should he tell the others of his discoveries or not? He decided to keep them a secret, including the vanished footprints, for a short time at least. But he jumped up, and ran down to the shore, and sent an ear-piercing yell across the water. The answer was a wave from Tom, and presently the _Argo_ drew closer inland and laid her course for a small, grass-topped headland on Ben’s side of the creek.

“Don’t jump; slide down, Benjie, slide,” directed Tom.

“And slide gently,” added David. “Not as if you were making for third base with the ball getting there before you. Remember the Professor’s at the helm and we don’t want to tilt the boat.”

“Don’t you worry,” sang out Ben. “I’ll drop in so you’ll think I’m as light as a feather.” And as the _Argo_ slipped along under the headland he let himself down, lightly and easily, but, as it happened, right on the shoulders of David.

The big fellow gave a growl. Ben’s legs had somehow contrived to twine themselves around David’s neck, and Ben was sitting there on the broad shoulders, his hands on the other boy’s head.

“Hi there! Look out!” cried Tuckerman. “You’ll upset the whole shebang!”

But Tom came to the skipper’s rescue. A steadying hand on the tiller and the _Argo_ moved out from the shore.

Slowly Ben pushed David forward until they both came down in a heap in the little cockpit. “Behave yourselves,” ordered Tom. “I’ve got a dipper here and I’ll souse you both with cold water!”

The threat was enough. The two sat up. David grinned. “The little feller’s all right; he’s got some muscle. I shouldn’t wonder if I could make a real man out of him some day.”

Under Tom’s teaching John Tuckerman was learning something about handling a sailing dory, just as Ben had given him lessons in flounder fishing, David in making flapjacks, and the three in various swimming strokes. It was true that he still regarded the _Argo’s_ sail, when a sudden puff of wind filled it, as an inexperienced driver regards his horse when the animal shows signs of shying—his muscles grew tense, and he frowned, and stopped talking—but he didn’t ask Tom what to do and he managed to keep the dory fairly close to the course he intended. And he was a good sport! He didn’t try to crawl out of his mistakes by arguing about them; he admitted them with a grin, and that grin was always so whole-souled and hearty that it made one want to slap him on the back and tell him that he hadn’t really made a mistake after all.

When Tuckerman had the _Argo_ well in hand again and could think of other matters, he said to Ben, “We’ve seen plenty of rocks and ledges, but nary a thing that could properly be called a cliff. A cliff, I take it, is something fairly high and mighty, not so steep as Gibraltar perhaps, but as large as a good-sized barn-door.”

“While we’ve been hunting for cliffs,” said David, “I suppose Ben has worked this all out. What are your conclusions, oh wise one?”

“Never you mind, my boy. The clever magician waits till he has everything in order before he performs his trick.”

“Ben’s got something up his sleeve,” put in Tom. “I can always tell when he talks in that grand way. But there’s no use trying to make him tell us, Dave. The way to make an oyster talk is to pay no attention to it.”

Ben said nothing, though the temptation was great as the _Argo_ reached the northern end of the island, where high rocks came down to the water.

Tuckerman admitted these were cliffs, but there were a number of them, and how was he to tell which was the one they wanted? They sailed slowly along, watching the shore and speculating as to what the message in the desk referred. And while the other three talked Ben sat silent, trying to picture what had happened to James Sampson there more than a century before.

Ben had a good imagination, and it led him to see Sampson as a servant of Sir Peter Cotterell, a faithful serving-man, who always did what his master told him. When the men of Barmouth threatened to take Sir Peter’s treasure the old Tory gave some of his most valuable possessions to Sampson, and the latter carried them to this end of the island where he had a small boat that should carry him to the mainland. When he reached the shore, however, he saw other Barmouth men patrolling the coast in their own boats and so his escape that way was cut off. With quick wit he hid the treasures in a cleft of the rock and blocked up the hiding-place. Ben could see it all, even to Sir Peter, in knee-breeches and wig, commending James Sampson when the man returned and related what he had done. “Good and faithful servant,” said Sir Peter; “the rascals are outwitted again!” And doubtless Sir Peter took Sampson into the dining-room and poured him out a glass of rum. Ben wasn’t sure about that; it might not have been rum; but rum sounded well, it smacked of old-time adventure. Yes, probably it was rum; and Sampson had wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and laughed with his master at the thought of the men of Barmouth sitting out there in their boats, like so many cats waiting outside a mouse-hole.

“Come out of it, Ben! Wake up!”

Ben looked up with a start. Tom was laughing at him. “Where are you, Benjie? A million miles away!”

“No,” answered Ben, “I was listening to Sir Peter talking to a man you don’t any of you know anything about.”

“Your precious mahogany man?” asked Tom. “Don’t tell me you learned something more about him while you were up at the house.”

“He means the man with the big feet,” said David. “Did you find his prints in the house?”

“David,” said Ben solemnly, “you’re absolutely certain you saw those footprints of a man on the bank of the creek, are you?”

“Absolutely,” David stated. “You don’t think it was some animal wearing a man’s shoes, do you?”

“No. I thought you saw them. But I looked this morning in the same place, and there aren’t any prints there now.”

There followed a moment’s silence; then Tuckerman exploded a loud “What?”

“Vanished, vamoosed, flown away,” Ben said with a nod.

“My eye!” exclaimed David. “This is too horrible! Is the island haunted?”

“It is peculiar,” said Tuckerman, frowning at the shore.

“Look out!” sang out Tom.

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.”