THE STORY OF THE MAP
"You see," said Curlie, tapping the soggy bit of vellum which he held in
his hand, "the trouble with this map is, not that it is not genuine, but
that it's too old. This map," he paused for emphasis, "this map was made
in fourteen hundred and forty-six."
Gladys Ardmore gasped. Her brother stared in astonishment.
"It's a fact!" declared Curlie emphatically.
"You see," he went on, "the day I was in the library with Miss Gladys I
saw an exact reproduction of this map in a large volume. At the same
time I read a description of it and a brief account of its history. It
seems it was lost sight of about a century ago. There were copies, but
the original was gone.
"I concluded at once that the map had somehow come into the hands of
Alfred Brightwood. Since I was convinced that this was the truth, and
since I had read the writing about the gold discovered on the mysterious
island charted there, I decided that it would be wise to find out
whether or not it were possible that this strange story might be true. I
found my answer in a bound volume of Scottish Geographic Magazines in a
series of articles entitled 'The So-Called Mythical Islands of the
Atlantic.'
"It seems that there is fairly good proof that a number of vessels
landed on the North American continent before Columbus did. Driven out
of their course or lured on by hopes of gold and adventure, these ships
from time to time discovered and rediscovered lands to the west of
Ireland. They thought of the land as islands and gave them names. The
island of Brazil was one of them. If you were to consult this map I have
here you would find the island of Brazil indicated by a circle which is
nearly as large as Ireland, yet if you were to cruise all over the
waters in the vicinity of this supposed island you would find only the
restless old ocean.
"What's the answer then?" he smiled. "Just this: These ancient sea
rovers didn't have any accurate way of telling where they were at a
given time on the sea, so they had to guess at it. Carried on by winds
and currents, they often traveled much farther than they thought. They
landed on the continent of North America and thought it an island. When
they came back to Europe they tried to locate the land they had
discovered on a map, and missed it by only a thousand miles or so.
"Our ancient friend who wrote of his experiences on the back of this map
had doubtless been carried to some point in Central or South America,
for there was, even in those days, plenty of gold to be found in those
regions."
"So you see," he turned to Vincent with a smile, "you went five hundred
miles out to sea for the purpose of rediscovering America. Not much
chance of success. Anyway that's what I thought, and that is why I
dashed off on a wild race in the _Kittlewake_. And that's why we're
here."
Silence followed the ending of Curlie's narrative. There seemed to be
nothing more to say.
So they sat there staring at the sea for a long time.
The silence was at last broken by the skipper's announcement:
"Smoke on the larboard bow."
It was true. Their relief was at hand.
Almost immediately afterward Curlie received a second reassuring message
from the captain of the liner. A short time after that he had the
pleasure of escorting the dripping daughter of a millionaire up the
gangway.
The next day as they were moving in toward the dock, Vincent Ardmore
approached Curlie.
"My sister," there was a strange smile on his lips, "says you set out on
this trip for the purpose of having me arrested?"
"I did."
"Well--" the other boy choked up and could not continue.
"The law, punishment, prisons and all that, as I understand it," said
Curlie thoughtfully, "have but one purpose: to teach people what other
folks' rights are and to encourage them in respecting them. It's my
business to see that there is fair play in the air."
He paused and looked away at the sea. When he resumed there was a
suspicious huskiness in his voice. "Seems to me that as far as you are
concerned, nature has punished you about enough. You ought to know by
this time what interfering with the radio wave lengths belonging to sea
traffic might mean to shipwrecked men; and--well--Oh, what's the use!"
he broke off abruptly. "I'm a chicken-hearted fool. You're out on parole
and must report to your sister every week. She's--she's what I'd call a
brick!"
Turning hastily he walked away.
Almost before he knew it, he all but ran over Gladys Ardmore, coming to
meet him.
"Oh, Mister--Mister--" she hesitated.
"Just plain Curlie," he smiled.
"You--you're coming to see me when you get home? Won't you?"
Curlie thought a moment, then of a sudden the spacious walls of the
Ardmore mansion flashed into his mind. To go there as an officer of the
law was one thing; to go as a guest was quite another.
"Why--why--" he drew back in confusion--"you'll have to excuse me
but--but--"
"Oh! I know!" she exclaimed. "It's the house and everything. Tell you
what," she seized him by the arm; "there's a little old-fashioned
farmhouse down in one corner of our estate. It was there when we bought
it and has been kept just the same ever since. Even the furniture, red
plush chairs, kitchen stove and everything, are there. We'll go down
there and have a regular frolic sometime, popcorn, molasses candy,
checkers and everything. We've a wonderful cook who once lived on a
farm. We'll take her along as a chaperon. Now will you come? Will you?"
she urged eagerly.
"Why--why--"
"If you don't," she held up a warning finger, "I'll come up and visit
you in that secret wireless room of yours just as I once said I would."
"In that case," said Curlie, "I suppose I'll have to surrender. And," he
added happily, "here we are, back to dear old North America, without any
gold but with a lot to be thankful for."
The boat was bumping against the dock. Giving his arm a squeeze the girl
dashed away.