Ben, having explained to the other three campers that he had important
business to attend to in Barmouth, set out in the _Red Rover_ directly
after breakfast the next morning. He paddled the canoe across the bay,
landed at the town wharf, and went up the main street to Barmouth’s one
good hotel. He knew the clerk, Mr. Pollock, and after saying “Good
morning” very politely, he helped himself to a small folded automobile
map from a pile that lay on the counter for anyone to take.
“Going motoring, Ben?” asked the clerk. “Seems to me I heard you were
camping on Cotterell’s Island. How are things over there?”
“Fine,” said Ben; and in return he promptly asked a question. “Had many
automobile parties for dinner the past few days?”
“Quite a lot. Yes, business is pretty good. They like our special
broiled lobster dinners.”
Ben leaned on the counter, copying the familiar manner he had noted in
hotel guests. “You had a party on Tuesday, didn’t you? A big red car,
with a Massachusetts license, driven by a man in green-checked
knickerbockers?”
“Expect me to remember that?” Nevertheless, Mr. Pollock scratched his
chin and considered the question. “Yes, seems to me I do recall such a
party. Somebody said those knickerbockers were loud enough to be heard
all the way to Boston.” The clerk thumbed the pages of the hotel
register and presently pointed out a name. “That’s the fellow, Joseph
Hastings. He comes from Cleveland, Ohio. There were four in his party.”
“And he came in a big red car, with a silver eagle on the radiator cap?”
Ben persisted.
“Well, now, I can’t say as to that.” But Mr. Pollock, being a
good-natured man and having nothing else to do at the moment, scratched
his chin again, and again considered. “I do think of something. He told
me he’d punctured a tire and asked me the best place to go to buy a new
one.”
Ben nodded. “I suppose you told him Hammond’s?”
“You’re right. I did. Frank Hammond is a good friend of mine.”
Then Ben changed the conversation to the subject of the big league
pennant race, in which the clerk was very much interested, and after
some further chat, departed from the hotel.
Frank Hammond knew Ben also, and was not too busy that morning to
exchange a few words with him. After a number of questions about the
state of the roads in the neighborhood of Barmouth, Ben said, “Mr.
Pollock tells me you sold a tire to Joseph Hastings, of Cleveland, Ohio,
Tuesday of this week.”
“That’s so,” said Mr. Hammond, “I did. I sold him a couple of those big
Vulcan tires for his rear wheels. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I don’t know him very well,” Ben evaded. “But I hear he’s a fine
fellow. Is he touring along the coast?”
“No. He said he was staying at a place called the Gables, down on the
Cape Ann Road. Wonderful car he’s got. He told me he’d had it built
according to his own ideas.”
“Big red car, with a silver eagle on the radiator cap?”
“That’s the bird. Yes, sir, he must be a millionaire.”
When he left the dealer in automobile supplies Ben went to his uncle’s
house and secured the loan of a small, ramshackle car he had often
driven before. He made sure that the car had plenty of gasoline and oil,
that the radiator was full of water, and he took a look at the tires.
Then he drove south from Barmouth over the State Road.
It was a fine day, and many cars were out. Ben kept a watchful eye for
such a car as that of Joseph Hastings, but none answering the
description passed him. So he jogged along until he came to the fork of
the Cape Ann Road and turned into it. There were fewer automobiles here,
the road was not made for speeding, the little car bounced about a good
deal going over ruts, and rattled like a load of tinware.
He met a boy on a bicycle and asked him if he knew a place called the
Gables.
“Down the road a couple of miles,” the boy told him. “Big house with a
ship for a weather-vane.”
Ben thanked him and drove on. Pretty soon he saw the weather-vane on a
roof to the left of the road.
The Gables had a wide lawn, stretching down to a stone wall. The
entrance to the drive was at the southern end, and the gateposts were
flanked with larches. Ben drove to the gate, and stopped. So far his
plan had been simple; now he was undecided what course to follow next.
He was musing over this when a voice hailed him.
“Give you greetings, sir. May I ask what you’re pondering over?”
The words were so peculiar that Ben looked around in surprise. A young
man had stepped out from among the trees and was nodding at him.
“Why—good-morning,” said Ben.
“Has your car run out of juice?”
The man came up, a broad smile on his face. He himself looked very much
like any sunburned fellow; but his costume was most peculiar. He wore a
tight-fitting jacket of green, open at the throat, without any necktie.
His knee-breeches were green, too, and so were his stockings, and on his
low brown shoes were large brass buckles.
“No,” said Ben, with an answering smile, for there was a twinkle in the
stranger’s eye as if he knew some joke, “I’ve gasoline enough to run
this car all day. I’ll admit it isn’t the very latest model—not what
you’d call a show car—but we do get wonderful mileage per gallon of
gas.”
“Don’t make any apologies for your equipage,” said the gentleman in
green. “Many a valiant knight has ridden on a steed that wouldn’t have
taken the blue ribbon at the horse show. Don Quixote, for example. You
remember him, of course? The Spanish cavalier who rode forth to tilt at
windmills?”
“Yes,” said Ben with a laugh. And then, seeing that the man was
friendly, he added, “That’s a wonderful suit of clothes you’re wearing.”
“You like it?” The owner looked down at his costume. “I designed it
myself. It seems to me an improvement on the usual thing. And now, kind
sir, since you tell me that your steed has plenty of fodder, may I ask
how you happen to be sitting here on such a fine day?”
“This place is called the Gables, isn’t it?” asked Ben. “Mr. Joseph
Hastings lives here?”
“Right you are,” answered the man. “But Mr. Hastings isn’t at home this
morning. Did you have business with him?”
“In a way. I wanted to find out if he’d lost a silver snuff-box.”
“A snuff-box? That’s interesting. But I don’t think Joseph Hastings
takes snuff.”
Ben drew the box from his pocket. The man in green looked at it. “Now
where did you find this?” he asked.
“On an island in Barmouth Harbor,” said Ben. “Cotterell’s Island, it’s
called.”
“Well!” exclaimed the man. “Well, well—you don’t say so!” He looked at
the boy in the car with a new interest. “So that’s where you come from,
is it?” He returned the snuff-box. “May I be so inquisitive as to ask
your name?”
“Benjamin Sully.”
“Thank you. My own appellation is Roderick Fitzhugh. If you have no
objection, Mr. Sully, I should greatly enjoy the pleasure of riding with
you.”
Ben didn’t know what to say; and Mr. Fitzhugh evidently took his silence
for consent, for he immediately hopped into the seat beside the driver.
“That’s all right,” said Ben; “but you see I wasn’t thinking of riding
anywhere. I came to find out whether Mr. Hastings had lost a snuff-box
on Cotterell’s Island.”
“Just so. But you can’t find that out, as he’s not at home at present.
And meantime I suggest that we go on a little adventure. A fine day, a
steed with plenty of gasoline, and two gentlemen looking for amusement.”
Ben was mystified. “What sort of adventure?” he asked.
“Well, what would you say to hunting for hooked-rugs?”
“Hooked-rugs?” Ben laughed; he was now so much amused at Roderick
Fitzhugh’s company that he wanted to see more of him. “Do they grow on
bushes?”
“No. They grow in these thrifty Yankee cottages. I’ll tell you where to
go.”
Ben started the engine and drove on. At his companion’s direction he
soon turned into a by-road that led westward.
Roderick Fitzhugh nodded toward a cottage, in the yard of which a woman
was scattering grain to a flock of chickens. “There is a likely-looking
hunting-ground,” he said. “Please stop when you come to the gate. I will
exchange a few words with this respectable lady.”
The car stopped, making its customary noise of clattering tinware as Ben
put on the brake. The woman looked round, and in the usual neighborly
fashion of farmers walked over to the gate.
“Morning,” she said.
“Good morning to you, Madam,” responded Roderick Fitzhugh. “You have a
fine flock of hens.”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the man in the green clothes as if she
didn’t know exactly what to make of him.
“My friend and I,” continued Fitzhugh, “were just discussing the subject
of hooked-rugs. As soon as I saw you I said, ‘There’s a woman who knows
all about them.’” His tone was so deferential that anyone would have
been pleased to be addressed in such a manner.
The woman smiled. “Well, now, I don’t know as how I know all about them;
but I do have a few old rugs. Been in the family some time.”
“You see!” exclaimed Fitzhugh, turning to Ben. And to the woman he
added, “Would it be possible for my friend and me to have a look at
them?”
“Surely it would. But they’re not the new shiny kind you can buy at the
stores in the city.”
Fitzhugh and Ben descended and followed the woman indoors. Presently
they were viewing half-a-dozen antique rugs, all of the hooked variety,
that the woman collected from the upstairs rooms.
Ben looked on with interest and amusement while his new friend discussed
the rugs with their owner. And after listening to Fitzhugh’s admiration
for these things that she evidently regarded as rather faded and only
fit for service in bedrooms and attic, the woman said, “I’d be pleased
to have you take one, if you care to.”
“Oh, madam, you are too generous,” Fitzhugh answered. “And yet I should
like to have one. That medium-sized one, with the purple border. I’d be
glad to pay five dollars for it.”
“Why, it’s not worth that much.”
“It is to me,” said Fitzhugh, and he brought out a five-dollar bill from
his trouser pocket and laid it on the table.
With the rug they returned to the car. As they drove on again Fitzhugh
said, “They used to tell me, when I was a small boy, that you could take
one egg from a nest, and if there were several others left the mother
bird wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t know whether that’s so. But
I’m certain this good woman won’t miss that rug very much. So my
conscience is easy, though I got that prize at a bargain. Now, Mr.
Benjamin Sully, what do you say? Isn’t hunting for hooked-rugs
exciting?”
It was fun to hunt them with this amusing companion. Fitzhugh collected
three more at three other houses, paying five dollars for each. At the
third house the farmer and his wife and children were just sitting down
to dinner and the strangers were invited to join them. They had an
excellent meal, during which the man in green did almost all the
talking, and when they returned to the car and started on again he
rubbed his hands gleefully and said, “Mr. Benjamin Sully, it isn’t so
hard to find adventures if you look for them, is it?”
“Well,” Ben answered, “this is all very well; but I set out this morning
to see Mr. Hastings and learn if he’d lost a snuff-box.”
“That’s so, you did. Joseph Hastings—a silver snuff-box—found on
Cotterell’s Island. What makes you think that the snuff-box you found
there belonged to Joseph Hastings?”
Ben considered how much to tell this Roderick Fitzhugh, and finally
decided to supply him with more facts. “The snuff-box was bought by Mr.
Hastings at a shop in Barmouth, and I found it yesterday in a chest
hidden in a crevice in the rocks on the island. Why did he put it
there?”
The man in green beamed with delight. “In a treasure chest? Why, that’s
splendid!” He looked at Ben with new approval in his eyes. “So you’re
mixed up in a real adventure, are you? Treasure hidden in the rocks—on
an island! Why, that’s magnificent! No wonder you didn’t get excited
over my tame hooked-rugs. Turn the car about, and drive back to the
Gables. We must investigate this.”
Half-an-hour later the little car turned in between the gate-posts at
the Gables. It clattered up the drive to the front of the house. On the
wide porch were at least a dozen people, men and women; and when they
saw the occupants of the car they gave a shout of welcome.
“Hello, here’s the lad in green!”
“We thought you’d been kidnapped!”
“Where’d you find the jitney?”
“Hope you’ve had some lunch!”
“We thought you’d been arrested as a suspicious character in those
clothes!”
These were some of the exclamations.
The man got out of the car and threw his bundle of rugs on the steps of
the porch. “My good friends,” he said, “Roderick Fitzhugh has been
adventuring, and there’s his booty. Four beautiful hooked-rugs to add to
the collection. And this is Mr. Benjamin Sully. Ladies and gentlemen,
Mr. Sully has found a silver snuff-box belonging to Joseph Hastings in a
treasure chest on Cotterel’s Island. What do you think of that?”
There was another chorus of exclamations, expressive of great surprise.
“Mr. Sully,” the man in green continued, “if you’ll get down from your
steed we will partake of a long glass of lemonade—two glasses to be
exact.”
Ben climbed down and went up the steps. And then he noticed that all the
people on the porch were dressed in quaint costumes, as milkmaids or
archers or foresters. He looked at Fitzhugh, and the latter nodded.
“Queer crowd, aren’t they?” said Fitzhugh. “However, they won’t bite.”