John Tuckerman was leaning on his arm and looking out at the sparkling,
gleaming blue-green water when Ben Sully woke next day. Ben kept still
and watched him, as he had watched him on several other mornings.
Tuckerman looked so absorbed, so intent. He seemed to be sniffing the
air. And Ben, to whom a summer morning on the New England coast
presented no novelty, appreciated that to this man everything about him
seemed like a part of wonderland.
The only sounds were the lapping of waves and the calling of birds in
the woods back of the camp. A great gray-white gull was soaring far out
over the water, slanting first this way, then that, as though he were
trying his wings before he made a real flight. Nearer shore two white
terns circled round and round, and then dropped straight in the bay,
their sharp beaks darting at fish. The shore of the mainland rose in a
green swell, on which pearl-colored fleecy clouds seemed to be floating,
and the shore of the island itself, above the beach, was a tangle of bay
and juniper and wild roses, all shades of greens and pinks in the early
sun.
Ben saw this through Tuckerman’s eyes, and felt the spell of
enchantment. Then David rolled over, stretched his arms, grunted; and
the spell was broken. A pine-cone, tossed by Ben, landed on David’s
nose. “Hi there, you mosquito!” exclaimed the nose’s owner. He threw the
pine-cone at Tom. “Time to be up, lazybones. Breakfast in half-an-hour,
and those who aren’t down when the bell rings won’t get any!”
“The tub’s mine first!” shouted John Tuckerman, and pulling off his
pajamas he took a few leaps across the grass and raced over the sand to
the water, where he ducked under a wave and bobbed up again, splashing
and yelling.
Ben, then David, then Tom, followed, making more noise between them than
all the wildfowl on the island put together. The water was cold, but
fine for a morning swim, and when, after fifteen minutes, the four came
out on the beach again, they seized the Turkish towels that hung
conveniently on a juniper, and rubbed themselves to a brilliant
lobster-like glow.
“That particular swimming-pool,” said John Tuckerman,—“I refer to the
one commonly called the damp spot, or the ocean,—beats all the
porcelain-lined tubs it has ever been my privilege to bathe in. It’s
true there’s only cold water; but come out into this sun for a few
minutes and you’ll be hot enough. Now it seems to me”—but at that
particular moment he began to pull his flannel shirt over his head, and
when his words again became audible he was saying “shake well, and take
a teaspoonful in a glass of water every morning before breakfast.”
Breakfast! Magic word after a swim in the ocean! The boys jumped into
their clothes and set to work. For the next half-hour the thoughts of
all the campers were centred on food.
But as soon as his plate was cleared Ben began to consider another
matter. He quoted lines to himself, “I took the box to the north
cliff.... I hid it in the pocket in the rocks. There are two veins that
make a mark like a cross.” Very good; that was plain. And as soon as the
after-breakfast chores were done he said, rather self-consciously, “I
know where there’s a pool full of cunners,” and picking up his
fishing-rod and tackle, he hurried into the woods.
He looked back over his shoulder once or twice, but no one was following
him. Through the thickets, dappled with sunshine, he went at a brisk
trot. This brought him out on the north shore, where the high rocks
towered above the beach like a line of battlements. He swung himself
over a cliff and dropped lightly on to the sand. Leaving his fishing-rod
in a convenient place where he could pick it up quickly if anyone came
by, he began his search.
There were crevices in the rocks, and each of these had to be explored.
Bushes and trailing vines, growing from little footholds, covered the
seaward surface of many of the cliffs. But Ben, thrilled with the sense
of exploration, and persevering by nature, stuck to his task, and was
rewarded at last by finding what he sought, two veins of a light yellow
color that made the distinct mark of a cross.
“That’s it!” he muttered, excited. “And, by Jove, there’s the pocket!”
Down on his knees he went, and thrust his head into an opening. He
pushed himself forward by digging his toes in the sand. And soon his
outstretched hand touched a large chest, he felt metal bands about it,
he pushed it, but it was wedged in tight.
Presently he pulled himself out, stood up, and considered the situation.
He had found the box that James Sampson had hid in the rocks. His first
thought was what a tremendously strong man Sampson must have been to
carry such a chest all the way from Cotterell Hall to this north shore.
However, Sampson might not have carried it; he might have brought it in
a cart or by some other means. And his next thought was, how could
Benjamin Sully get that chest out of the pocket.
That took a good deal of thinking, and he sat down and considered it
from various angles.
Into his brown study two voices from somewhere back of him made
interruption abruptly.
“He’s fishing for cunners on the dry sand! First time I ever saw that
done. He just coaxes ’em out of the water.”
“Keep quiet! He’s counting the grains of sand. He’s got up into the
millions.”
“He’s thinking up a way to hypnotize the fish. Stare at them hard
enough, and they’ll swim right up on the beach.”
“He’s copying King Canute. Telling the waves to go back.”
“He’s working out a time-table for the tides.”
Ben turned his head. “As a matter of fact, the thing I’m thinking about
is a thousand times more interesting than anything you’ve guessed.”
The two voices were those of David and Tom.
“I’ve always said,” observed David, “that you can’t catch our Benjie
napping. He seems to be sitting there like a bump on a log, but he’s
really thinking of the most remarkable things.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” nodded Tom, “if it was something utterly
prodigious—like why the water’s wet or fish have scales.”
“No,” said Ben pleasantly, “I was wondering how I could get Peter
Cotterell’s treasure chest out of the place where his servant James
Sampson hid it. It’s rather too heavy for me to handle by myself.”
The other two stared. “Benjie oughtn’t to have come out here without a
cork helmet,” said David. “I suppose he’s got a sunstroke.”
[Illustration: “Sampson put the chest there,” he concluded.]
“What are you driving at?” asked Tom. “Have you really found the
treasure, Ben?”
Ben pointed negligently toward the cleft in the rock. “There,” he
answered. “See that yellow cross? That marks where he hid the chest.”
“You’re dreaming!” David snorted.
“How do you know?” questioned Tom.
Ben took from his pocket the piece of paper that bore James Sampson’s
message. He read it aloud, slowly, giving each word full weight.
“Sampson put the chest there,” he concluded. “And there it is now. I
crawled in and found it.”
Even David was impressed by that. He got down on his knees and poked
into the cavern, and when he stood up he nodded solemnly.
“There is something in there,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder if Ben might
be right.”
“Well,” said Tom, “there’s a rope in the sailboat. We left her around
the point.” He hurried away.
In a few minutes he was back, with a coil of good-sized rope.
Taking an end of this, Ben again crawled into the opening and made the
rope tight about the chest. Then the three boys took hold of the other
end of the rope and began to pull. The sand was not very secure footing
and the chest was heavy, but gradually they pulled it out. They
discovered it was a box made of hard wood, with iron fastenings.
“Well,” declared Tom, “if James Sampson carried that all the way here by
himself, all I’ve got to say is that he deserves his name.”
“These mahogany men,” added David, “supposing that the fellow who
carried this chest was a mahogany man—must belong to a race of giants.
I wonder if it was a mahogany man who made those footprints on the edge
of the creek?”
Ben had picked up a flat stone, shaped something like a large Indian
arrowhead, and another round stone; and inserting the first stone under
the lid of the chest, he struck it several blows with the other.
Tom watched him a moment. “You can’t pry it open that way,” he asserted.
Looking along the beach, he selected a big, egg-shaped stone and brought
it back to the chest. Lifting it in both hands, he dropped it on the
iron band just above the lock. The iron snapped apart. The stone bounced
off on the sand.
David and Ben seized the lid. With a creaking of hinges it was lifted.
There before them was a light blue coat, gold-braided, a three-cornered
hat of felt, a sword in a tarnished scabbard.
“My eye!” exclaimed Tom. “Just clothes! Why in the world did he want to
hide such things?”
Ben was flinging them aside. Underneath were other garments, several
suits of the style worn by gentlemen in Revolutionary days, and then the
oddest collection of bric-a-brac, candlesticks, pewter pitchers, a
silver snuff-box, a couple of lacquered platters, and even some china
plates.
David started to laugh. “Well, if that’s the Cotterell treasure, I can’t
give it much! I don’t see why the Barmouth people wanted to lay hands on
it, or why Sir Peter and his precious James Sampson were so eager to get
away with it. Why, it’s regular junk-shop stuff. I don’t suppose the
whole collection, if they’d sold it at auction, would have fetched
enough to feed a soldier a week.”
Ben looked very much crestfallen. He fingered the suits, the snuff-box,
the platters. “No,” he said, “it does seem mighty queer. And to think
that Sampson brought these things over here, intending to take them away
in a boat! I don’t understand it at all.”
“Never mind, Benjie.” Tom slapped his friend on the shoulder. “You found
the chest anyway.”
“That’s right. You did,” said David. “You worked out the puzzle. It
isn’t your fault if the treasure was just old junk.”
Ben was scratching his head. “But surely Sir Peter did have some
valuable plate,” he argued. “The people of Barmouth knew that. Then what
did he do with it?”
“Maybe he melted it down himself,” said David. “Anyhow it isn’t in that
chest.”
“That’s so.” Ben picked up the snuff-box and stuck it in his pocket.
“Where’s the Professor?”
“He went up to the house. Said he was going to write a letter,” Tom
answered. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, old sport. I’ll take you out in
the _Argo_ and let you have some fishing.”
The chest was shut again and pushed back into the pocket. Ben regained
his fishing-rod and tackle, and the three embarked in the sailboat. And
presently the satisfaction of pulling flounders on board made Ben forget
everything else.
When they returned to camp, with a fine catch of fish, they found John
Tuckerman busy preparing dinner. Ben told his story, while Tuckerman
listened with the greatest interest. “It does seem odd,” he said, when
Ben had finished. “Most peculiar, in fact.” He mused a moment, his eyes
regarding the water. “But then my good old ancestor Sir Peter was an odd
kind of fish. I wonder now—do you suppose he could possibly have been
planning to have a joke at the expense of his Barmouth neighbors?”
“You mean,” said Tom, “that he might have hid those things expecting the
neighbors to find them?”
Tuckerman nodded. “It might have been so. Perhaps he, or James Sampson,
even expected the men in the boat that was waiting off shore to find
where Sampson hid the chest.”
“But why all this puzzle then about the pieces of parchment Ben found in
the house?” asked David.
“Well, I’ll admit,” said Tuckerman with a smile, “that it’s not as clear
as a pikestaff. Only Sir Peter does seem to have liked his joke.
However, the bacon’s sizzling.” Brandishing a fork in his hand, he bent
over the frying pan.
That afternoon Tuckerman said that he had an important letter to mail,
and the campers sailed to Barmouth. Tuckerman went to the post-office,
and each of the boys dropped in on his family. Ben had a chat with his
mother, then told her he must do an errand. This took him into a side
street, where there were a number of small, unpretentious shops.
He stopped before a window that was filled with old furniture, andirons,
odds and ends of china. He opened the door, and a little bell tinkled
somewhere back in the house, and after a moment a small, wizened-faced
man, wearing a big blue checked apron, came into the room.
“Afternoon, Mr. Haskins,” said Ben.
“It’s Ben Sully, ain’t it?” said the proprietor. “Well, are you goin’ to
get married, an’ want a nice set of furniture to go to housekeepin’
with?”
“Not to-day, Mr. Haskins.” Ben acknowledged the joke with a grin. “No,
sir, I’m more interested just as present in what you call antiques.”
“Antiques, eh? Well, what was you thinkin’ of wantin’? I’ve some nice
three-legged kettles, a soup tureen that came over in the _Mayflower_,
an ivory back-scratcher that hails from India. Just look about, an’ tell
me what you want.”
“I want you to tell me something about this.” Ben put his hand in his
pocket and drew out the snuffbox he had taken from the Cotterell chest.
“This?” Mr. Haskins took the snuff-box, pulled his spectacles down from
his forehead on to his nose, walked nearer the window, and peered at the
small silver box.
“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked after a moment.
“Is it a real old one?”
“Certainly it is. See that monogram? That’s the finest embossed work.”
Mr. Haskins gave a chuckle. “I ought to know about that box, I ought.”
“Why ought you?” asked Ben.
“Well, you see, this here particular snuff-box has been in my shop some
time. I sold it to a customer just about a week ago.”
“I thought perhaps you had,” said Ben, trying hard not to show his
excitement.