Tom Hallett lived in an old town on the Atlantic seaboard, a port of New
Hampshire that was wedged in between the rocky coast of Maine and the
sandy beaches of Massachusetts. If he crossed the broad river to the
north, the beautiful Pesumpscot, by the old toll-bridge that seemed as
ancient as the town itself, he came into the Pine Tree State. If he
sailed to the south, he had not far to go before he reached Cape Ann.
Back of him, to the west, lay the foothills of the White Mountains, and
he had often tramped far enough in that direction to see the noble
outline of Mount Washington rise grandly against the sky. In front—for
people who live along the seacoast always think of the ocean as being at
their front door—was the harbor of Barmouth, a wide semi-circle, its
two horns sticking way out to the east, its broad bosom dotted with many
islands. Once Barmouth town had sent many ships to sea, merchantmen to
the West Indies, around Cape Horn, to the fabled lands of India and
China, fishing fleets to the Grand Banks off Newfoundland, whalers to
the Arctic; now, however, ships were not so plentiful, sails had given
place to steam, and the young men stayed ashore to make their living
rather than seek the rigors and gales that were a part of the toll
exacted by Father Neptune.
Tom Hallett’s house had the cupola on top of its roof that told of the
old sailing days, the “widow’s watch,” as it was commonly called, for
from there the wives of sailors used to watch for the first sign of
homebound sails. His grandfather had been a sea-captain, and the house
was full of the treasures he had collected. Many a time Tom and his
older sister Milly had listened to the amazing yarns the weatherbeaten
mariner had spun by the winter fire.
Barmouth was an excellent place for a boy to live. There was plenty of
lawn around most of the houses, the streets were wide and well-shaded,
open country was near enough to be reached by a ten-minute walk. There
was coasting and skating in winter—all that one could wish—and the
ponds that rang with the music of steel runners in January were
swimming-holes in July and tempting places to fish. And there was always
the harbor and the wind from the sea, calling young sailors to launch
their dories and try their skill over the rippling waves.
Tom was sixteen that summer, and wanted something to do—something a
little different from his usual holiday jaunts. He told his father about
it, and his father said he would think the matter over. And then one
evening, as Tom was leaning on the garden gate, wishing that some
adventure would come his way, he found himself addressed by a stranger.
“Do you know of a young fellow out of a job?” said the stranger. “A
likely young fellow, who doesn’t mind roughing it?”
Tom regarded the man. The latter was tall and spare, and wore big,
horn-rimmed spectacles that gave him the look of a wise and thoughtful
owl.
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” Tom answered, copying the cautious
words and tone of voice that he had often heard his uncle Samuel Jordan,
who was a lawyer, use when he was asked questions.
“You’re Yankee through and through, aren’t you?” said the man. “You
don’t want to commit yourself to anything definite until you know all
the facts. I don’t suppose I could interest you in buying a calico horse
until you’d got out a pail of water and soap and a scrubbing brush to
see if the spots would wash off.”
Tom laughed; the stranger looked so extremely solemn in his big glasses,
and yet his tone indicated a joke. “Even if the spots didn’t wash off
I’m not sure you could interest me in that horse,” he retorted. “I don’t
see how I could use him just now.”
“Well, he’s not for sale, my friend. I need him out on the old farm in
Illinois, where I come from.” The man stroked his chin while he regarded
Tom reflectively. “I’m looking for a young and able seaman, for to tell
you the truth, I don’t know much about salt water. I provide the grub
and the boat and whatever else is needed, and the sailorman provides the
lore of the sea.”
Tom’s interest was aroused. If this stranger really wanted a sailor to
help him with a boat it seemed odd that he should be seeking information
from a young fellow lounging on a gate in one of the quiet, elm-shaded
streets of Barmouth. It would have been much more natural to look for
such information along the waterfront, at some of the docks or piers.
“Why don’t you hunt up one of the captains?” Tom suggested. “They might
know just the man for you.”
“I don’t want a man,” was the answer. “I want a likely young fellow,
someone about your age and general cut of jib—that’s the right
seafaring expression, isn’t it? I’ve got an adventure on hand, and I
want company. I wouldn’t mind two, or even three, young fellows, if they
were the right kind.”
An adventure! Tom pricked up his ears. The man was certainly
interesting, he would like to know more about him. “Where are you going
to sail, and how long would you be away?” he questioned.
“My cruise will probably be limited to the islands in Barmouth Harbor,
and we’d be away anywhere from a week to a month.”
“Well,” began Tom, “I don’t know——”
“Neither do I,” said the stranger, with a grin. “There are a number of
things I don’t know about this adventure. But then the main point about
an adventure is that we can’t tell everything about it in advance. Isn’t
that so?”
“I suppose it is,” Tom granted. And after a moment’s thought he added,
“I know my way round the harbor pretty well, and I can sail a dory, and
I’ve got a couple of friends——”
“Fine!” declared the man. “Do you know, it may seem odd to you, but as I
came along the street and my eyes lighted on you, I said to myself,
‘that’s precisely the type of messmate I’m looking for; an upstanding
fellow, with a good head on his shoulders.’”
Naturally Tom felt pleased. He straightened up and stuck his hands in
his pockets. “The only thing I don’t understand,” he said, “is how you
expect to find a real adventure in the harbor. Of course we could cruise
around, and fish and swim. Is that what you had in mind?”
“Did you ever hear of Cotterell’s Island?” The stranger lowered his
voice.
Tom nodded. “Of course I have. We call it Crusty Christopher’s Island
around here.”
“Have you ever been on it?”
“No,” Tom was forced to admit. “The man who lives there won’t let any
one land. He’s put up signs warning people off and he keeps watch-dogs.”
“The island belongs to me,” announced the stranger, “and I’m going to
camp out on it.”
Tom stared at the man in surprise. “But surely you’re not Crusty
Christopher!” he exclaimed. “I always heard he was old and had a white
beard.”
“Mr. Christopher Cotterell,” explained the stranger, “was my uncle;
though as a matter of fact I only saw him once, when I was a small boy.
He died last year and I have inherited his island and the house on it.
The house has a history. I’m very much interested in old houses, and
particularly in this one. My name is John Tuckerman.”
“Well,” said Tom, “that’s interesting, to be sure. I hope you don’t
think I meant to call your uncle names.”
“Oh no, you didn’t offend me,” said the man promptly. “I’ve heard him
called Crusty Christopher before, and I shouldn’t wonder if he deserved
the nickname. There have been a number of queer characters in the
Cotterell family; there was old Sir Peter Cotterell, for instance, who
built that house on the island and lived there during the Revolution.”
“Sir Peter?” queried Tom. “I don’t seem to remember him.”
“He wasn’t really Sir Peter,” Mr. Tuckerman explained. “He was only
plain Mr. Peter, like his neighbors in Barmouth. But he had the bad
taste to side with the King of England when the colonists objected to
paying taxes without being represented in the government—in other
words, he was what they called a Tory—and so the people nicknamed him
Sir Peter in joke. There are lots of stories I could tell you about him.
I’m very much interested in history, you see.”
Tom nodded. The more he listened to this Mr. John Tuckerman the more he
liked him. And yet simply to camp out on an island in the harbor, even
on Cotterell’s Island, where he had never set his foot—though he had
often wanted to—didn’t strike him as a very thrilling adventure.
Perhaps Mr. Tuckerman read his thought, for, lowering his voice again,
he said, “There’s a mystery connected with the place; I’ve found
references to it in some old family letters. And the house is full of
old furniture and bric-a-brac. I can hardly wait to explore it.”
The man’s tone was undoubtedly eager, and though Tom had never felt any
great interest in old furniture and such things he found his curiosity
rapidly rising. An island and a house to explore—Crusty Christopher’s
at that—and possibly a mystery. He might be making a great mistake if
he let this adventure escape.
Mr. Tuckerman was speaking again. “I might as well explain at once that
I’m a dreadful landlubber. I don’t know anything about sailing boats,
and not very much about fishing. I’m afraid my education has been very
much neglected along certain lines. I want to camp on that island, and I
want company. Do you know how to cook—to cook the sort of things
campers eat, I mean?”
“I can cook some things. But my friend David Norton can cook almost
anything. He’s one of the fellows I meant.”
“It would be splendid if we could get David, too. I’d take along plenty
of provisions, but one does get tired of living on canned things.”
“Ben Sully’s a corking fisherman,” said Tom. “Ben and David and I have
camped out a lot together.”
“I’d like to keep the expedition as quiet as I can,” Mr. Tuckerman
stated. “I don’t want a lot of curiosity-seekers poking round the
island.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Tom. “I’ll swear both of them to secrecy;
except to their families, of course. You wouldn’t mind our telling our
parents?”
To that John Tuckerman agreed. “This is just what I hoped to find,” he
said, “some young fellows with the spirit of adventure. You know the
ropes, and I don’t. Let’s see; what’s your name?”
Tom told him. “Wouldn’t you like to come in and see my father?” he
suggested.
“I must be getting back to the hotel,” said Tuckerman. “You tell him my
name, and say I’m Mr. Cotterell’s nephew. You sign up to go, do you? And
you’ll try to get your two messmates? I’ll see to the boat and grub and
cooking outfit—and I think I can promise you a bit of adventure.”
“If Father says yes, I sign,” agreed Tom, smiling at the man’s air of
business. “And the more adventure there is, the better I’ll like it,
too. Things are sort of quiet here this summer.”
Tuckerman held out his hand. He had a formal manner about him that
amused Tom greatly. “See you at Lowe’s Wharf at two o’clock tomorrow
afternoon.”
“Right,” said Tom, shaking hands. “And I’ll have the other two fellows
there with me. They’ve always wanted to have a look at that island.”
The tall, lank man turned, and shortly disappeared behind the big clump
of lilac bushes at the corner of Wentworth Street. Tom, thoughtfully
jingling a bunch of keys in his trouser pocket, chuckled as he
considered the situation. In fifteen minutes this Mr. John Tuckerman, a
total stranger, had persuaded him to camp out for a fortnight or so on
Crusty Christopher’s island. Tom could well believe that Mr. Tuckerman
needed some companions who were used to the water and campcraft; he
looked as if he might be a Professor and more knowing about history and
such things than about how to reef a sail or hook a flounder.
Still grinning at this unusual happening, Tom went into the house, where
in the sitting-room his father was reading, his mother sewing, and his
sister Milly trimming a new straw hat. “I’m going camping on Cotterell’s
Island,” he declared. “It’s a sort of a secret, so you must all promise
not to tell.”
Milly looked up quickly. “On Cotterell’s Island? If you step ashore
there, somebody’ll pitch you off.”
“Oh no, they won’t. I’m going with the owner.”
Milly wrinkled her nose, as she did when she felt scornful. “I suppose
that pleasant old man has sent you an invitation. ‘Dear Mr. Thomas
Hallett, I should be _so_ delighted if you’d drop in on me.’” And Milly
tilted the straw hat on her hand so as to judge the effect of the ribbon
around the brim.
Tom walked across to the fireplace, where he stood with his back to the
hearth, as his father often did when he had an announcement to make.
“Mr. Christopher Cotterell is dead,” he said. “I received my invitation
from his nephew, Mr. John Tuckerman.”
Milly turned around, surprised. “What are you springing on us? Where did
you meet this man?”
“Down at the gate to-night,” said Tom calmly. “He wanted a likely young
fellow to help him explore the house and the island he’s inherited, and
naturally he came to me.”
“Yes, what Tom says is quite true,” declared Mr. Hallett. “Mr. Tuckerman
is the new owner. So he asked you to help him, did he?”
“He called himself a landlubber. I’ve an idea too that he doesn’t want
to stay on the island alone. I’m to get Ben and David, and we’re to sail
his boat for him and fish and cook and keep him company.”
“Humph!” sniffed Milly. “That doesn’t sound very exciting. You’re to do
the work while he loafs around.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. He hinted that we might find something
very interesting. He called it an adventure. And he let slip something
about a mystery.”
Milly put the hat down. She herself was very fond of camping and sailing
and swimming, and although she pretended to be quite grown up she still
yearned at times for her old tomboy ways. “I suppose he isn’t going to
be like Old Crusty—I mean Mr. Christopher Cotterell? He won’t mind
people coming out to see that queer old house.”
“That’s just what he does mind,” said Tom. “He wants to keep the whole
thing dark, for the present, at least. Why, if he didn’t, all Barmouth
would be going out there. Most of them never got nearer the place than
to read the signs; and they’d all be crazy to go.”
“Well, it seems to me,” argued Milly, “if he’s going to explore the
house he ought to have someone out there who knows something about
furnishings. I daresay there’s lots of old silver and curtains and rugs
and maybe chests of fine linen. Now of course a woman—well, it’s only
natural that a woman—you know what I mean, a woman could help a great
deal in sorting such things out.”
“When you say a woman,” inquired Tom, “do you happen to be thinking of
Miss Milly Hallett?”
Milly, in spite of her tan, flushed a fiery red. “You know perfectly
well, Tom, that you’ve always said I was a great help on a camping
party.”
“So you are, Milly,” Tom admitted loyally. “You cook better even than
Dave does. But Mr. Tuckerman didn’t say anything about bringing a girl
along. I’m afraid he’d think that wouldn’t be business-like.”
“Tom’s right, Milly dear,” said Mrs. Hallett. “This is Mr. Tuckerman’s
affair, and it wouldn’t be right to offer him any suggestions. But
perhaps, while they’re out on the island, he wouldn’t mind if some day
we went over to look at the house. When do you start, Tom?”
“To-morrow at two—that is, if father says it’s all right.”
“Oh, you’re going to ask my consent, are you?” said Mr. Hallett, with a
smile. “Well, if Mr. Tuckerman is such a landlubber as he appears to be,
I think it’s only right you should give him your help. I don’t see how,
with Ben and David and you, he can possibly get into hot water.”
“He can’t,” agreed Milly, picking up the hat again and pretending to
shiver. “The water isn’t even warm around the islands in the harbor.
However, I don’t suppose this Mr. Tuckerman is apt to care much for
swimming.” And as she went on twirling the hat in her hands and puffing
out the big blue bow, she hummed a little tune to indicate that she was
much more interested in her millinery than in Tom’s prospective
adventure.
Tom walked down the street to the small, pitched-roof house—a white
house with green shutters and door, and tall pink and red hollyhocks
standing up against the sides—where Benjamin Sully lived. As luck would
have it, David Norton was sitting with Ben on the doorstep. “Hello!”
cried Tom. “I’m looking for a couple of able-bodied seamen.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Ben. “What port are you bound for—the Barbary
Coast or Barbadoes or round the Cape of Good Hope?”
Ben was a small, dark boy, agile as a monkey. When he was with David
Norton he looked smaller and darker than ever, for David was big of
frame and his sandy hair topped a cheerful, freckled face. These two and
Tom Hallett were about of an age, and had always shared each other’s
secrets.
“Cotterell’s Island, lads. A place where the foot of a white man has
never set heel before.” And standing in front of his two friends, Tom
related John Tuckerman’s proposal.
When he had finished, Ben nodded. “The plan sounds good to me. I’ve
always meant to have a look at that island. As I’ve sized it up, Crusty
Christopher wouldn’t have been so concerned to keep people away if he
hadn’t had something he wanted to keep secret.”
“I don’t know about that,” said David. “Some people are made that way;
they just naturally don’t want other folks around. Maybe the place is
just like any other island.”
“Well, I’m going anyhow,” declared Tom. “I guess I can look after Mr.
Tuckerman all right by myself. But I didn’t want to seem mean and leave
you two out.”
Ben jumped up. “I’m going, all right. I’d hate to think of you and that
ignorant fellow out there all by yourselves. Count me in on this, Tom.”
“I guess your friend wouldn’t get much good cooking,” said David,
“without me to superintend.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” retorted Tom. “He’s going to take plenty
of good stuff.”
“Canned!” snorted David. “I know—hardtack and beans out of a tin. No,
siree. You’d be squabbling inside of two days if you didn’t have me and
some of my famous flapjacks to keep you pleasant.”
“Nice, modest David,” said Ben, stroking his big friend’s arm. “However,
though he doesn’t think very well of himself, I vote that we let him
come along. Maybe he’ll be useful.”
“You bet I’ll come,” announced the tow-headed one. “Do you think I’d let
you two and a queer man go prowling around a mysterious island without
your Uncle David? I’ll be there when the boat sails, with my pet
frying-pan!”