Chapter VI: Part 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you call me ‘Sir Peter’?”

“I understood that was your title.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII—THE PIRATES ASHORE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Boothby laughed, and David flushed a magnificent scarlet.

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

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

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

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

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

“My steward,” stated Cotterell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Game?” echoed Ben.

“Game?” said Tom. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here!” ordered Ben.

The other three followed him into the attic, to the window opening to the east.

“Is that your fishing-smack, Dave?” Ben demanded.

David looked. “By Jove, I believe it is!”

“Do you want to know where she’s going?” was Ben’s next question.

“Shoot,” said Tom.

“She’s going to the beach where I found the chest in the hiding-place in the rocks. Her crew are after that chest, I’ll bet you a fiver!”

The three stared at him in surprise. “What makes you so certain?” asked Tuckerman.

“Because I know. I have reasons for knowing. They’re after that chest. They think it’s the Cotterell treasure, just as I thought it was.”

“You mean they’re going to land on our beach and carry off our chest under our very noses?” demanded Tom.

“They are unless we stop them,” nodded Ben.

“Then,” said David, “I’m going to stop them. Seems to me there was an old musket somewhere around here.”

There was an old musket in the corner of the attic; there were two, in fact; and a fowling-piece and a couple of antique duelling-pistols. The boys and Tuckerman seized on all the firearms, regardless of the rust that came off on their clothes, and hurried into the hall.

Down the stairs they went, making a great noise. And the clatter of their feet was so loud that the gentleman in buff and all his friends ran out from the dining-room to see what was the matter.

“Why, it’s an army coming!” cried Peter Cotterell in great surprise.

The four halted in the front hall.

“What’s the meaning of this!” exclaimed Cotterell. “I invited you to share my wardrobe, not to ransack the house for weapons. Come, will one of you please explain?” Indignation mingled in his tone with surprise.

“There’s a boat off-shore, and her crew is going to land on the beach at the northern point and steal your treasure chest,” said Ben.

“My treasure chest! My silver plate!” Cotterell raised his hand, clenched it into a fist. “Those rascally rebels from Barmouth!”

“I don’t know where they come from,” said Ben. “But we’re going to chase them away.”

“Chase them away?” Cotterell spurned the suggestion. “No, sir. We’ll capture them.”

He looked around at his guests. “Gentlemen, what do you say? Would you like to bag a few robbers?”

There were shouts of approval.

“Not so loud, not so loud,” said Cotterell. He turned to the boys and Tuckerman. “Can you spare us a few of those extra musquetoons, or whatever they are, that you found abovestairs? With those, and the fencing swords in the living-room, and a few other odds and ends, we should do quite nicely. I have a pistol myself. I never go without it in these revolutionary days. Let me see. I left it in the kitchen, in a pot on the shelf, where it would be out of the way.”

The firearms were handed around, and shortly a group of fantastically-garbed people stood in front of the house. The campers and Cotterell and Sampson were to lead the expedition, and some of the ladies insisted on bringing up the rear.

They had not gone far, however, when Sampson suggested a new idea to the others, and after a few minutes’ talk Cotterell’s steward and two of the other men left the main party and turned off in the direction of the creek.

Through the woods went the expedition, a long line of people following Ben, who had a musket almost as long as himself stuck over his shoulder, which necessitated his constantly ducking and dodging to avoid overhanging branches.

When they reached the northern edge of the woods they divided into three bands. One was headed by Ben and David, the second by Tom and Cotterell, and the third by Tuckerman. Each band was to make its way down to the beach in front of the rocks by a different path, but not to come out from the shelter of the bushes in the ravines until its leader was sure that the crew from the fishing-smack had landed and were looking for the chest. The ladies were to stay in the woods. To this Miss Penelope Boothby objected. She said that with the riding-crop she had picked up in the house she could easily defend herself against a dozen pirates. Cotterell said, “I’m sure you could, my dear Penelope. But the bright colors of your gown might give us away. And if we have to crawl through the brambles, what would happen to your light silk dress?”

Ben and David, with two men, threaded their way down a ravine to a network of bushes that fringed the edge of the beach. From here, without being seen themselves, they could see what was going on. The fishing-smack had come to anchor a hundred yards off shore, four men had rowed to the island and were now on the beach. Pointing to one of these men, David whispered in Ben’s ear, “That’s my friend Sam. I’d know his ugly mug anywhere.”

“They’re after the chest,” Ben returned. “Yes, they’ve found the right place. See, one of them’s crawling in, with a rope in his hand.”

Three bands of watchers, at three places along the beach, saw the crew of the smack haul the chest out from the crevice. As soon as they had it out they threw open the top. And as they all bent over, eager to lay hands on the Cotterell treasure, a voice hailed them from a clump of bushes not fifty feet away.

“Throw up your hands!” cried the voice. “Throw them up quick!”

The crew stood up. They saw a man in buff coat and breeches facing them, a pistol in his hand.

“Up with your hands!” cried another voice from a bush on the other side.

The crew hesitated a second. One of them glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve got us cornered!” he muttered, and stuck his hands up over his head.

The three scouting parties marched out on to the beach. The muskets and firearms were leveled at the four men round the chest.

“It’s a regular army!” exclaimed one of the crew. And putting on as much of an air of bravado as he could with his hands above his head, he demanded, “What do you want of us? We’re not stealing anything. We found that chest here.”

“Keep your hands up!” cautioned Cotterell, as he walked forward. “As you say, you’re surrounded by an army. And while your hands are up, I’ll ask some of my friends to see if you have weapons in your pockets.”

The search was quickly made, and each man relieved of a pistol.

“Now,” said Cotterell, “you may ease your muscles. But let me tell you the first one who tries to get away will be knocked down and handcuffed.”

“All right. We’ll go easy,” said the man who was known to David as Sam. “But I don’t know what you’re after. We came ashore and saw this box in that crack in the rocks.”

“It’s my box,” said Cotterell. “I own everything on this island.”

“Well, take it if it’s yours,” growled Sam. “We don’t want it. I thought a box on the beach was public property.”

“You think a good many things are public property,” Cotterell retorted. He looked at Ben and David. “Have either of you seen this man anywhere before?”

“I have,” said David. “He’s the fellow who carried me off in that boat out there.”

“Has anybody here seen any of these other men?” Cotterell asked next.

Tom spoke up. “I’m pretty sure they’re the fellows Lanky Larry and I followed from the cove to the house called the Gables.”

“And what are they suspected of having done at the Gables?” continued Cotterell.

“Of stealing some jewels,” said Tom.

The man in the buff coat nodded. “In other words, they are probably not very desirable citizens to have at large. I think it’s my duty to give them into custody.”

“Oh, come now,” said Sam. “You don’t really know anything about us. There’s your chest. You see we haven’t taken anything from it. We were sailing along the coast and we came ashore to have a look at the island. That’s a reasonable thing to do.”

“You haven’t any right to arrest us!” exclaimed one of the other men. “You haven’t got a warrant. And who’s going to believe what that young fellow said about seeing us somewhere else?”

“Perhaps we can supply the authorities with further proof,” said Cotterell with a smile.

There came a shout from someone on board the fishing-smack, and all those on the beach looked in that direction. A man was waving a handkerchief over the side of the boat.

XIX—THE COTTERELL SILVER PLATE

While the campers and Cotterell and his guests had been making prisoners of the four men on the beach, the steward Sampson and the two others who had separated from the main party had embarked in a motor-boat that was moored in the creek and made their way out to the fishing-smack. To the surprise of the skipper, who was the only man aboard, two men in fantastic knee-breeches had swung themselves over one side of his boat while he was idly surveying the northern point of the island from the other side. He turned to find himself looking at the muzzle of the most remarkable pistol he had ever seen. Being unarmed himself, he had immediately put up his hands. Whereupon the two men had smiled, and the one with the pistol, lowering that ancient weapon, had said, “That’s a good fellow. Is there anyone else aboard?”

“No,” said the skipper, not wanting to have the smack searched.

“Take a look through his clothes for a weapon,” the man with the pistol said to his companion.

No weapon was found. The man in the motor-boat came aboard, and two of the men went into the smack’s cabin, while the third guarded the skipper.

When the two returned from the cabin some time later, one of them went to the rail and shouted and waved his handkerchief toward shore. And presently Cotterell and Tom, David and Ben rowed out in the smack’s boat.

In the cabin were the hats and cloaks and the other things that Tom and Lanky had seen in the shack at the cove. Sampson set out at once in the motor-boat for Barmouth, and before the sun had touched the tops of the trees the four men on the beach and the skipper were in custody of the police, charged with having stolen certain valuables from the Gables.

“Well,” said Cotterell, when he and his guests were again on the island, “my treasure is still secure from the rebels, thanks to you,” and he bowed to the campers.

“Oh, is your famous dinner-set really in that chest?” asked Miss Penelope Boothby. She went to the chest and looked at its contents. “Why, it’s only clothes and bric-a-brac! There’s no silverware there.”

“No,” said Cotterell, smiling. “That is not my silver plate. I keep it better hid than that.”

“Oh, do let us dine off it to-night,” begged Miss Boothby. “I should dearly love to see it.”

Cotterell looked perplexed. “Why, I should like you to,” he answered. Then he glanced at the sun. “But the party waits. And it was my intention to dance a minuet on the lawn before my house while it was daylight. Come, friends, come along with me.”

They went back through the woods. The boys and Tuckerman branched off by the path to their camp, promising to come to Cotterell Hall in time to join the party. And, once out of hearing of the others, David turned to Ben. “You’re a cute fellow, Benjie. How’d you ever guess that the men from the smack would go after that chest?”

“I don’t mind telling you now,” said Ben with a grin. “I was pretty sure that those men were snooping around the house, looking for clues to the treasure, and so I put a copy of that message on the parchment out on the lid of the desk, where they couldn’t very well fail to see it. Then I went down on the beach by the cliff when the smack was fairly near shore, and tried to give them the notion that I was looking for something. Well, they bit all right. They thought the treasure was hidden there, just as I thought myself when I first saw Sampson’s message.”

“I’ll hand it to you, sonny,” said Tom. “You turned the trick! And that’s the crowd that stole the jewels from the Gables, just as I thought.”

“They stole some of Mr. Fitzhugh’s costumes,” said Ben. “It seems to me that the fact that we found those costumes in the cabin shows what they’ve been doing.”

They sat on the bank a few minutes, talking over the adventure. Then Tuckerman stood up. “Well, we’re due at Cotterell Hall. Wash your hands and brush your hair, so you’ll look your smartest.”

“Do you suppose we’ll have to dance?” asked David, as he ran a comb through his thatch of hair.

“I think that one of the ladies has her eye on you,” said Tuckerman, laughing. “However, if you’ve got a game leg, I’ll be glad to take your place.”

As they reached the house Peter Cotterell came out at the door. Behind him were Miss Boothby and Sampson. “My wardrobe is still upstairs,” the buff-coated man said genially. “Make what use of it you please.”

This time the campers found costumes quickly. Even Ben, who kept looking at the row of pegs from which he had taken down the yellow satin coat, got into that coat and a pair of breeches. There was the sound of a violin in front of the house, and as they came down the steps they found the whole party taking places for a dance.

“I’m afraid we don’t know the minuet,” said Tuckerman, hesitating.

“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said the host. “I’ll call off the figures.”

Ben gave Tom a nudge, and pointed out two men who stood at a little distance with a big camera. “Sir Peter’s up to date,” he whispered. “I guess it’s the first time anyone ever took moving-pictures on Cotterell’s Island.”

Meantime Miss Boothby had gone up to David and boldly proclaimed that he was to dance with her. The suit that David had put on in the attic happened to be green, and when she reminded him that that was the color she had asked him to wear he turned beet red and stammered something about “trying to please a lady.”

“We will stand near Mr. Cotterell, and I will show you all the steps,” she said. “I could tell you were very light on your feet the very first time I saw you.”

“Well, I can pick them up pretty well in a clog or a shuffle,” admitted David.

“I knew it! I knew it!” exclaimed the delighted Miss Boothby; and pouncing on David’s hand she led him to where Peter Cotterell was assigning places to the dancers.

Tom and Ben and Tuckerman all had partners. The violin began to play, and Cotterell led off the dance. The host was very graceful and so was the lady he danced with, and they posed and bowed and courtsied constantly as they went through the stately measures of the minuet. The others copied their leaders, and after a few minutes’ practice contrived to do it well. Meantime the camera clicked, taking reels of pictures of the old-fashioned dance.

There was a final bow and courtesy, a final posing in position. Then Cotterell raised his hand. “That was beautifully done, my friends,” he said. “Surely my island home has never witnessed a more graceful scene. I trust you have all gained an excellent appetite for dinner.”

“What a gorgeous sunset!” exclaimed Miss Boothby, looking toward the water.

They all moved down in the direction of the pier. As they came in view of the broad and many-colored bay they saw a sailboat heading for the landing. Cotterell stopped and again raised his hand. “Can it be that the people of Barmouth are coming out here again?” he demanded indignantly. “I’ll have nothing to do with them, and they know it! I will not give them my plate!”

The sailboat came on. Cotterell, followed by the others, walked out on the pier.

“What do you want?” called out the buff-coated man. “This is Cotterell’s Island.”

“We know it is,” answered a man in the boat. “Who are you? You look like Sir Peter.”

“I don’t want any rebels from Barmouth landing here,” came the reply.

“There aren’t any rebels nowadays. We won the Revolution.”

“You shan’t have my silver plate.”

There were laughs from those in the boat. “We don’t want it. We’ve brought paper plates of our own.”

“Well,” said Cotterell, “this is most extraordinary!” He turned to his guests. “Shall I let them land?”

“We’ve got an ice cream freezer aboard,” called a girl in the boat. “Fresh strawberry ice cream.”

“Yes,” said Miss Boothby, at Cotterell’s elbow, “we’ll let them land with that cargo.”

The sailboat touched the landing-stage, and two men, two women and two girls got out. “Hello, Benjie,” cried Milly Hallett, waving her hand to the dark-haired boy. “What grand company you’ve got!”

The arrivals were Mr. and Mrs. Hallett and Mr. and Mrs. Hooper and Milly and Sarah. They went up on the pier, where Tom introduced them to Peter Cotterell.

Mr. Hallett looked at the company. “I’d no idea, sir,” he said, addressing Cotterell, “that your island was entertaining so many guests to-day. I wish I’d brought a dozen gallons of strawberry ice cream.”

“You are welcome anyhow, Mr. Hallett,” answered Cotterell graciously. “I think perhaps I can supply any deficiency.” He turned to his steward. “Sampson, will you bring Mr. Hallett’s ice cream freezer up to the Hall?”

“Oh, no, Sir Peter,” protested Mr. Hallett. “We were going to have a simple picnic supper outdoors.”

The buff-coated gentleman bowed. “Your pardon, sir; but I am the overlord here. Those whom I allow to land on my island are my guests during their stay. You must dine at my board.”

Peter Cotterell offered his arm to Mrs. Hallett, and led the way up to the house. Sampson and Tom brought up the rear, carrying the ice cream freezer.

They all went into the large front room. “Dinner in half-an-hour,” announced the host.

“That reminds me,” said Miss Boothby; “since we’re all friends here, aren’t you going to offer us dinner from your silver plate?”

“Really, Penelope,” expostulated Cotterell, “you repeat yourself. That’s the second time this afternoon you’ve mentioned the same idea.”

“It seems only hospitable,” pouted Miss Boothby.

Cotterell looked at the floor. “Well, you see,” he began. “You see——”

The lady interrupted. “I believe you’ve forgotten where you put it!”

There was an awkward pause. Cotterell flushed, bit his lip.

“Well, if he has,” piped up Ben, “he’s only mislaid it. I think I can show him where it is.”

Everyone turned to look at the fellow who spoke with such confidence. John Tuckerman stared, and so did Tom, while David gave a low whistle and muttered, “It’s just like Benjie to do something ridiculous.”

Cotterell smiled. “I am a great hand at mislaying things—it’s my besetting sin. Now I would be very much obliged if you would show me where I did put that silverware.”

“How funny,” said Miss Boothby, “that a total stranger should know. I understand that he came here for the first time this afternoon.”

“What joke is he going to play on them?” Tuckerman whispered to Tom. “I can’t imagine what he’s got in mind.”

“He’s putting up a good bluff,” Tom whispered back. “He looks very much in earnest.”

And Ben did look as if his statement had been perfectly reasonable. He nodded at Cotterell. “You may be a great hand at mislaying things—I don’t know much about that; but I do know that you’re a wonder at hiding them.”

“That’s so, I am,” agreed the buff-coated man with a pleased chuckle. “I can hide things so well that very often I don’t know where to look for them myself.”

“Well,” said Miss Boothby, “where is the silver? It’s almost time for dinner.”

Ben bowed, imitating the courtly manner of Cotterell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “if you will be so good as to fall into line behind me, I will endeavor to answer Miss Boothby’s question.”

Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, Ben, in his yellow satin coat and knee-breeches, went into the hall and up the stairs, followed by Cotterell, Penelope Boothby, Milly and Sarah, Tuckerman, Tom and David, and a line of men and women.

He led them into the attic. When they were all in the big room he pointed to the wall along which ran the row of pegs from one of which he had taken the coat.

“Now,” he said, “please tell me what you see.”

“A wall,” answered Milly promptly, “with some pegs to hang things on.”

“Miss Hallett is certainly right,” said Tuckerman. “There may be some cobwebs, too, up under the ceiling. Do you mean the cobwebs, Ben?”

“There are lots of more interesting things here,” said Sarah, looking around. “There’s that lovely green lacquered temple.”

“Don’t joke with the magician, Sally,” David admonished her. “He wants you to look at those pegs.”

“No, that particular wall is the most interesting thing in this attic,” Ben declared stoutly. “I think it’s the most interesting thing in the house.”

They all looked where he pointed, but none of them caught what he was driving at.

“Why, Professor Tuckerman,” said Ben, “I thought you were a better observer.”

“Well, I don’t see anything but the pegs and some rather dingy wallpaper,” Tuckerman confessed.

“Ah, now you’re talking! You do see the wallpaper, do you?” Ben continued.

“Of course,” said Tuckerman. “It’s the pictured kind, like that in the rooms downstairs.”

“Oh, no, it’s not,” exclaimed Ben. “There’s not another piece like that in Cotterell Hall.”

“Is that so?” said Tuckerman. “Well, it represents some sort of outdoor scene.”

“I think those are meant to be pine trees,” Cotterell put in.

“And that looks like a sunset,” Miss Boothby contributed. “Though some of the red has rubbed off.”

Ben bobbed his head. “And those yellowish things are rocks.” He stepped up to the wallpaper and pointed with his finger. “Three pines that stand between two rocks where the sun goes down.” He turned. “Does that convey anything to you, Professor?”

“By Jove! You’re right! So it does!” Tuckerman exclaimed. “That was the old saying! The hiding-place is just beyond the three pines that stand between two rocks where the sun goes down.”

“Exactly!” said Ben, in a quiet tone of triumph. He rapped on the wall with his knuckles. “It’s wood. Mr. Cotterell, have you any objection to our taking this part of the wall down?”

“None in the least,” answered Cotterell. “Sampson, will you be so good as to get some chisels and hammers? I think you’ll find them in the little room to the right of the kitchen.”

While Sampson went on his errand Ben and Tom and Tuckerman fingered that part of the wall that was bounded by the picture. They found the edges of two boards, running from floor to ceiling, and when they had peeled off the paper that concealed these edges they discovered there was a panel.

Sampson returned with a couple of chisels and hammers. Wedging the chisels in between the boards and giving a couple of light blows, he pried the panel loose. Ben pulled it away. Behind it, under the eaves of the house, was a compartment. And in the compartment was a big square box.

Ben and Tom and Tuckerman pulled the box out into the attic. It was fastened with a single lock. Hammer and chisel soon knocked the lock off. Tuckerman raised the lid. “Yes, it’s the Cotterell silver plate!” he cried. “By Jove, we’ve found it now!”

They handed the plate around, magnificent old silverware that was worth a small fortune. And they were still admiring it when a dinner gong sounded downstairs.

XX—SIR PETER’S PARTY

When none of his guests could eat any more of the delicious ice cream that topped off a wonderful dinner, the buff-coated gentleman rose from his chair at the head of the table. They had dined from the famous Cotterell silver service, and the candles that now illuminated the shining mahogany table were fastened in exquisite candlesticks that had been in the treasure chest.

The buff-coated gentleman raised a glass that stood beside his plate. “My friends,” he said, “our guests from Barmouth tell us that the Revolution is over; so there would be no object in keeping the Cotterell treasure hidden any longer. But it was well hidden. So well hidden indeed that it required a genius like Benjamin Sully to find out where it was. I propose a toast to that master detective, Benjamin Sully.”

All, except Ben, lifted their glasses and drank, nodding at the dark-haired boy.

Then Ben stood up. “I propose a toast to Sir Peter,” he said, “who surely does know how to give people a good time.”

That toast was drunk also. Then Tuckerman got to his feet. “Sir Peter, I am proud of you,” he said. “I don’t believe a more delightful party was ever given in Cotterell Hall.”

The man at the head of the table smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that, John Tuckerman,” he responded. “For, in a way, I felt that to-night I’d been usurping a place that was rightfully yours. For, of course, this is your house, and this is your silver plate.”

“Then who are you?” piped up Sarah Hooper from the foot of the table.

“I think he’s Roderick Fitzhugh,” said Tom, who sat beside Sarah.

“I think he’s Mr. Joseph Hastings,” volunteered Ben.

The buff-coated gentleman nodded, “You are both right. Joseph Hastings, Roderick Fitzhugh, and Peter Cotterell. I’m quite a versatile fellow. I’ve a passion for acting, to tell the truth.”

“I thought you were Joseph Hastings,” said Ben, “when I met you at the Gables.”

“Yes, that’s my right name. But Roderick Fitzhugh sounded so much more romantic. And I’d invited a houseful of guests to help me act a play I’d written for the moving-pictures. We all took the names we were to have in the play.” He pointed to Penelope Boothby. “She was the fair Maid Rosalind. And my steward Sampson yonder was Sir Marmaduke Midchester. And we liked our costumes so much that we wore them most of the time. That’s how I happened to be in Lincoln green when Master Ben drove up.”

“And it was the snuff-box you bought in Barmouth that I found in the chest in the cliff,” asserted Ben. “How did it happen to come there?”

Joseph Hastings pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs. “That’s quite a long story. But I suppose you’d like to hear it. I have a friend who knows John Tuckerman very well, and he wrote me that Tuckerman had come here to take possession of this island and its house. That sounded very interesting. So I came over here in my motor-boat with Martin Locke—that’s Sir Marmaduke, alias Sampson, and Miss Adelaide Lawson—that’s Penelope Boothby—it was a day or two before you campers arrived—and we found we could open one of the drawing-room windows and get into the house that way. Then we discovered the note stuck in the picture frame, and so we learned there was a secret about a family treasure.”

“And you left the window open a little when you went out,” put in Tom. “That’s how it happened that Ben’s candle blew out.”

“Did we?” said Hastings. “I didn’t know we did that. But we found some wax and took an impression of the key-hole in the front door, and I had a key made to fit it in Barmouth. I thought we’d have some fun with John Tuckerman and his friends.”

“You did, all right,” said Tuckerman. “I’ll forgive you for making that key. I suppose that’s what those men from the fishing-smack did when they broke in here.”

“I’m sorry if I set a bad example,” Hastings answered. “But they didn’t learn the trick from us. Well, a day or two later we three came back again.”

“You landed from the creek?” Ben asked.

“Yes; we didn’t want you to see us, and the creek was on the other side of the island from your camp.”

“And one of you took off his shoes before he landed?” Ben questioned again.

“Yes, Martin did. He carried Miss Lawson ashore.” Hastings laughed. “You saw his footprints, didn’t you? We thought you might find them, so we came back later and rubbed them out.”

“Gigantic footprints,” murmured David.

They all laughed, while Martin Locke blushed red.

“Yes, they are pretty big,” Hastings continued. “Well, when we came that time we found the notebooks in the drawing-room. Miss Lawson glanced through them, and read that part about a mahogany man with long, skinny legs and the clipper ship. We got an old piece of parchment and some purplish ink and we wrote out that message and signed it James Sampson. Then we cut it in two and put one-half in the secret drawer of the secretary and the other half in the model of a ship in the attic. We wanted to find out just how clever you were. We thought you might take the desk to be the mahogany man.”

“We got the idea of that from something Sally Hooper said,” Ben put in. “And the secretary certainly has long, skinny legs and is made of mahogany. Still, we mightn’t have connected it with Sir Peter’s mahogany man, if it hadn’t been for Sally.”

“Well, if you hadn’t,” Hastings continued, “we’d have thought up some other way to have you find that message on the parchment. We were very proud of that little scheme. Martin wrote the letters with his left hand, so they’d look as if Sir Peter’s servant might have done them, and he put water into the ink, so as to give it a nice, antique, faded appearance. We wanted you to have the fun of finding some sort of a treasure, you see.”

“And didn’t you take a look around for the real treasure mentioned in the note in the picture frame?” Tuckerman asked.

“Well, we did take a squint,” Hastings acknowledged. “But we didn’t think it likely we’d find that, if none of the Cotterells had been able to do it. We thought more about having some fun with you campers.” He looked at the three boys. “And we did give you a good time, didn’t we?—particularly Ben?”

“Yes, you did,” nodded Ben. “I was pretty well excited when I found that second piece of parchment in the hold of the ship.”

“When we’d fixed up the message,” Hastings resumed, “the next thing was to provide the treasure. Of course we’d already made a note of that crevice in the cliffs with the mark like a cross. I had an old chest at the Gables, and we filled it with some old costumes I had on hand, and then one day when I was in Barmouth I picked up some odds and ends from a dealer in antiques there, a fellow by the name of Haskins.”

“And that’s where the silver snuff-box comes in,” said Ben.

“Yes, that’s where it comes in,” Hastings admitted. “Though I must say that I was surprised when you drove up to the Gables that day and wanted to know if Joseph Hastings had anything to do with that snuff-box you’d found on the island. I didn’t tell the dealer my name.”

“No, he didn’t know your name,” said Ben. “I asked him that. You see, as soon as I saw what was in the chest I had a suspicion that someone was playing a game on us. Those things weren’t the Cotterell treasure; and why should anyone take so much trouble to hide such things on the island? Then I knew there had been people here, the footprints by the creek, the handkerchief in the kitchen——”

“What’s that about a handkerchief?” interrupted Martin Locke.

“The Professor found a handkerchief on the table in the kitchen,” Ben explained. “A lady’s handkerchief, with the initials A. S. L.”

“So that’s where I left it!” exclaimed Miss Lawson. “Those are my initials—Adelaide Sanderson Lawson.”

“Yes, there was the handkerchief and there were the footprints,” Ben continued. “That showed we weren’t the only people who had been to the island. And so, when we went to Barmouth, I took the snuffbox along, and dropped in on Mr. Haskins. He knew the snuff-box at once, and told me that the man who had bought it from him, and some other things too, had come in a big red car with a silver eagle on the radiator cap, and that the car had a Massachusetts license and the man was wearing green-checked knickerbockers. He didn’t know the man’s name.”

“I guess those green checks are rather conspicuous,” murmured Hastings. “But how did you connect the purchaser with me?”

“Through the clerk at the hotel where you stopped for dinner, and the man you bought a new tire from,” Ben answered, and he told how he had found his way to the Gables.

“Pretty clever,” laughed Hastings. “But instead of finding out why I’d put those things in the chest you went hooked-rug hunting with me.”

“Well,” said Ben, “when we came back to your house I thought you must be Joseph Hastings, but I didn’t get any good opening to follow up the clue. And then there was all that excitement over the robbers. But when I saw you doing those moving-pictures I sized you up as a person who’d like to play a game of some sort on us.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a knock at me or not,” said Hastings. “But I do like to play games. And that’s why, when I learned that you’d found the chest, I thought it would be good fun to come over here as Sir Peter Cotterell, dress my guests in Revolutionary costumes, and take some moving-pictures on the island. Martin and I came over to see about it; that was the afternoon when you invited us to stay to supper and Martin sang his song.”

“It was a splendid idea,” said Tuckerman, “and you did it up brown.”

“Thank you.” Hastings bowed. “Such words from a descendant of Sir Peter are a compliment indeed. We learned that you were going over to the water sports at Camp Amoussock this morning, so we thought we’d have a clear field. We brought a flotilla of boats—they’re moored in the creek now—and a good supply of costumes, and cooks and food and the moving-picture camera. I had one of my men make up like a servant from the Barbadoes, stain his face and hands with mahogany juice; he’s the one who brought us the negus; though it isn’t really negus—it’s loganberry juice and soda-water—and I got Martin Locke to play the part of Sampson.” Hastings looked at Locke and laughed. “Though I don’t think Martin could possibly have carried that treasure chest all the way from here to the north shore.”

“You certainly do things up thoroughly,” said Mr. Hallett.

“But what made the party a real success,” said Hastings, “was what our friend Ben Sully did. First, the capture of the thieves, and second, the finding of the real Cotterell treasure. That’s a pretty fine showing for one day, Ben.”

“It was just luck I found that chest in the attic,” Ben answered. “I thought all along that the pines and the rocks mentioned in that notebook were actual outdoor pines and rocks, just as I suppose everybody’s thought who’s hunted for the treasure. I’ve been up in the attic a lot of times, and never particularly noticed the wallpaper—it’s pretty much faded and blurred, as you saw; but when I was taking this coat off one of the pegs this afternoon, I did happen to notice that there was a yellowish sun and some pines and rocks in the design on the wall. Then the idea struck me all at once. Mightn’t that be the place the words in the notebook meant? And the more I looked at that wallpaper the more I felt certain of it. I suppose Sir Peter told someone jokingly one day that the treasure was hidden beyond the three pines that stand between two rocks where the sun goes down, and that fooled the people who’ve looked for it ever since. He surely did like his joke.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about it as soon as you hit on that great idea, Benjie?” It was Tom who asked the question.

“Why, then I saw the fishing-smack, and wanted to go after the thieves.”

“But afterwards?” said Tom. “Don’t tell me you’d forgotten about it when we stopped at the camp.”

Ben looked a trifle embarrassed. “Why, the fact is,” he replied, “I thought I’d like to spring it at a dramatic moment. I had an idea that Miss Boothby would ask Sir Peter again to show us the Cotterell silver plate—she wanted to tease him about it—and when she had him up a tree would be the right time for me to speak out and tell what I’d discovered.”

“That’s one on you, Adelaide,” laughed Joseph Hastings. “Ben saw how you love to ask awkward questions. And he likes dramatic things as much as I do. He sprung it at just the right moment.”

Tuckerman stood up and walked to the door that opened into the hall. From there he looked down the length of the room, at the table gleaming with silver, at the many candles, at the gaily-clad company. “Yes,” he said, “I think this is worthy of Sir Peter. I’m glad that Cotterell Hall has held high festival once more.”

“Sir Peter was a dear,” said Miss Lawson. “I’ve liked him ever since I saw that picture of him in the drawing-room. And it’s a wonderful house, Mr. Tuckerman. What are you going to do with it? Are you going to live here?”

“I can’t very well,” Tuckerman answered, with a shake of his head. “My home’s in the middle West. I’m not like my Uncle Christopher and his ancestors; I can’t live on an island in solitary grandeur. I’m too fond of people.”

“Why don’t you turn it into a show-place?” suggested Milly Hallett. “That’s getting to be quite the fashionable thing to do with colonial houses.”

“We’ve talked about that,” said Tuckerman. His eyes roved over the fine room; and after a minute he shook his head. “Cotterell Hall a museum? No, I couldn’t do that. But I’ll tell you what I would like to do. I’d like to come here every summer, and have Tom and Ben and David camp out with me, and have Joseph Hastings bring his house-parties over here and spend a week as my guests.”

There were cheers from all the company, the rafters rang with the noise as each and every one shouted his or her acceptance. Hastings jumped to his feet.

“In the name of us all I accept your invitation. We will come, and dance in your drawing-room and dine from your table, as they did in Sir Peter’s day. And now, friends and fellow-citizens, I propose three cheers—three long and rousing cheers—for John Tuckerman!”

The cheers were given—long and rousing enough to suit even Joseph Hastings.

Then the buff-coated man waved his hand. “As your host for the evening, I invite you to go to the drawing-room and dance something a little more modern than the minuet. Miss Sarah Hooper, will you do me the honor?”