Peter Cotterell's Treasure

by Rupert Sargent Holland

  II--COTTERELL'S ISLAND

  Early the next afternoon the few occupants of Lowe's Wharf--a couple ofmen fishing for cunners, a sailor painting the bottom of an upturneddory, two small boys practising tying various kinds of knots with oddsand ends of rope--saw three young fellows in dark blue jerseys and khakicoats and trousers and a man rigged out in a homespun Norfolk jacket andknickerbockers and greenish-gray golf stockings assemble as if they wereabout to start on an expedition.

  Tom Hallett, slender but wiry, browned by the wind and the sun, dumpedhis duffle-bag of blankets and extra clothing on the wharf andintroduced his companions. "Mr. Tuckerman, this is David Norton, andthis is Ben Sully. They'd both like to go along, if you still want threeof us."

  John Tuckerman shook hands with each. "I'm proud to have such a finelooking crew," said he. "Though perhaps I ought to put it the other wayabout and say three such fine looking captains, I myself being the crew.It doesn't need more than a glance to tell me that you three know allabout the sea and the woods. Great luck, I call it. And if I'm notmistaken there's our ship, waiting for us Argonauts to go aboard."

  At one side of the wharf, a man was holding the painter of aneighteen-foot sailing dory, already loaded with provisions and JohnTuckerman's bags. The three boys quickly had their own things stowedaway. "All right, Mr. Jackson," said Tuckerman to the man from whom hehad rented the boat. "You see I've shipped a good crew. You needn't lieawake nights wondering what's happened to your _Argo_."

  The owner grinned. "I know 'em. I'll trust 'em with the boat. But hername's the _Mary J. Jackson_. See, it's painted there in the bow."

  "So it is. _Mary J. Jackson_. That's a very nice name; but somehow itdoesn't seem exactly to suit this business. We're after the GoldenFleece, like the Argonauts of old; so if you don't mind I'm going tochristen her for this trip the _Argo_. Just a little fancy of mine."

  "Suit yerself, sir. She's a good boat, no matter what you call her."

  "Many thanks, Mr. Jackson." John Tuckerman sat down carefully. "Now,Captain Hallett, give your orders."

  The dory slid away, the experienced hand of Tom in charge of the tiller.Out into the harbor she sped, picking up the breeze as she danced along.

  The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, the water was translucent blue,with here and there wide sweeps of green, on the shore every house andtree stood out in vivid, fresh-tinted color. Tuckerman folded his armsand leaned back in great contentment. "This is something like, my lads!"he exclaimed. "My voyages heretofore have only been made on oceangrayhounds and fat-bodied ferry-boats."

  Ben looked at him pityingly. "It must be pretty hard," he said, "to liveinland, in a big city."

  "Yes, in some ways, though it has its compensations. You see, myancestors grew restless in New England and moved out across the plains.That is, the Tuckermans did; the Cotterells stayed here. And now therearen't any Cotterells left. That's how it came about that I own thisisland."

  "My father," spoke up David, "says that the Cotterells were once one ofthe best known families in Barmouth; but that old Mr. Christopher was asqueer as all get out. He knows lots of stories about him. He says thatMr. Christopher lived there with a colored man for his servant, andnever saw anybody."

  "Poor old chap!" said Tuckerman. "I can't help feeling dreadfully sorryfor him. Think what a good time he could have had in his big house. Why,in the old days it was one of the show places along the coast and theCotterells used to have celebrated parties." Tuckerman gazed out overthe water and pulled his chin with his fingers, in a habit he had. "Doyou know what I want to do? I want to take that old house and fix it upproperly, make it look as it used to, and give it back its good name."He smiled. "Maybe you'll think it odd, but I feel as if houses werealmost like people. I hate to see either the one or the other go toseed."

  "They are something like people," Ben agreed. "There's a church with asteeple in Barmouth that looks just like the pictures of the PilgrimFathers with their high-crowned hats. And the windows in front look likeeyes, kind of boring eyes that are trying to see right through you."

  "Ben's always thinking of queer things like that," David explained, halfin apology.

  Mr. Tuckerman nodded at the small, dark-browed boy. "I'm glad that Bencame along. I think he's going to be a great help in fixing up myhouse."

  In and out between islands, past long jutting ledges, where pine andjuniper ran down to the water's edge, the dory sailed smoothly.Sometimes Tom had to tack; again he ran for a stretch on a course duesouth. And after about an hour he raised his arm and pointed. "There--onthe port bow--there she lies. See that white, sandy beach. That'sCotterell's Island."

  Ben and David were familiar with the look of the place of course; theyhad cruised around it many times, and had always examined it withparticular interest because it was a forbidden shore; but now they gazedat it as though it were somehow entirely new, as indeed it was to them,except for the beach and trees.

  John Tuckerman nodded. "I'll take your word for it, Tom. It lies exactlywhere it should according to the map of the harbor; though I can't saythat it looks very much like the small red dot on the chart Mr. Jacksonshowed me at his boathouse."

  There was not much to be seen except the whitish-yellow beach, severalheadlands of purple rock, and thick-growing pines that stood outblack-green. There was, however, considerable to be heard as the sailingdory drew near. An immense cawing came from the tree-tops, and finallyas the _Argo_ nosed along close to the shore at least a score of crowsflapped away from their meeting-place and went winging off to a moresecluded grove.

  "Uncle Christopher's neighbors don't seem to like visitors any betterthan he did," observed Tuckerman with twinkling eyes. "Crows do sounddreadfully scolding, don't they? And I never knew such birds for allwanting to talk at the same time."

  Tom knew where the old pier stood, and brought his boat skilfully up tothe landing-stage. The sail was dropped and furled, baggage and storescarried ashore, and the four campers looked about them. From the old andrather decrepit pier a graveled path led up to the front of a wide whitehouse, partially screened by trees.

  "Cotterell Hall," said Tuckerman, gazing at the ancient mansion. "That'swhat they used to call it in Revolutionary days. Well, Tom, it's up toyou to tell us what to do. The house won't run away, and something tellsme it won't be so very long before we'll be hungry."

  "Suppose we look for our camping ground then," said Tom, "since it seemsto be understood that we're not going to bunk in the house."

  "That's the idea," agreed Tuckerman promptly. "Fond as I am of ancestralhalls and that sort of thing, I said to myself when I left theMiddle-West for the New England coast: 'John, you're to sleep out ofdoors on a bed of pine boughs, even if the bugs do fall from the treeson your face and the boughs stick you as full of needles as a porcupine.You're going back to the wild, that's what you are!'"

  His eyes behind his huge tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles looked sointensely serious that the three boys didn't know whether to laugh ornot. For all his dignified appearance he did seem extraordinarilyguileless. David, the most outspoken of the three, shook his headsolemnly. "This isn't going to be what you'd call so all-fired wild, youknow. If you're looking for that, you ought to go up in the NorthWoods."

  Ben came to the rescue. "It'll do as a starter though, Mr. Tuckerman,"he said encouragingly. "We can't promise you bears or anything likethat, but maybe there'll be owls and loons and other things that soundsort of strange at night."

  Tuckerman smiled. "Ben, I can see you're a friendly soul. And you mustremember that what may not seem very wild to experienced woodsmen likeyou three may prove very thrilling to a tenderfoot like me."

  They decided on their camp readily; a smooth stretch of turf in asemi-circle of pines on high ground just above a small sandy beach. Itwas perhaps a quarter of a mile from the pier and from Cotterell Hall.Pine boughs were cut, trimmed, and spread out for bedding, stores wereunpacked, driftwood collected for a fire, and the menu determined o
n forsupper.

  Tuckerman looked out at the water, a sheet of soft and beautifulopalescent colors in the setting sun. "Is there any reason why weshouldn't take a bath?" he inquired. "I feel extremely sticky."

  "No reason whatever," answered Tom. "The first rule of camp-life is,Obey that impulse. There's plenty of room in that bathtub, but you won'tfind much hot water."

  In five minutes they were all in the ocean, frisky as a school ofporpoises, making enough noise to scare any wildfowl away. The boysstruck out and swam, trying first one stroke and then another.Tuckerman, however, came lumbering along, jerking his arms and legs likean old and stiff-jointed frog. But he enjoyed himself. He was chucklingand gurgling and slapping his thighs with his hands as they all came outof the water.

  "Tom, you must teach me to swim," he begged. "I can see I'm not in yourclass now, but give me a week or so----"

  "Righto. I bet you'll learn quick."

  In fifteen minutes they were ready for supper. Fried eggs and bacon,grilled sweet potatoes, coffee, bread and butter, and then flapjackswith jam. "I can see," said Tuckerman, as he finished his thirdflapjack, "that David's reputation as a cook has not been exaggerated. Ialways wondered what it meant when I read that the gods lived onambrosia and nectar. Now at last I know."

  "You'll make his head swell," cautioned Ben, "and it's large enoughalready. We took him to a phrenologist last winter, and the man saidhe'd never felt such big bumps."

  The dishes were washed. The moon rose. Tuckerman lighted his pipe."Well," said Ben, "aren't we going to have a look at the old house? Itseems to me we ought."

  The house, when they approached it a little later in the moonlight--forBen's suggestion had met with favor from the others--presented a blankand shuttered white surface, against which the dark outline of the treesaround it showed in jagged forms. It had been a fine old dwelling, builtin a day when carpenters and joiners took a real love in their work andwere as eager to make a graceful, artistic window or doorway as themedieval masons of Europe were to perfect every detail of their greatcathedrals.

  Broad steps led up to the front door, which was wide and adorned with abig brass knocker and knob. Tuckerman, taking a little electricflashlight from his pocket, aimed it at the moulding above the door."Aha," he exclaimed, "there's the green and gold pineapple in all itsglory! They used to put beautifully carved pineapples like that in suchplaces in colonial days; they were the emblems of hospitality. Myancestor Sir Peter seems to have been friendly disposed when he builthis dwelling at least."

  "I've seen pineapples like that over the doors of some old houses inBarmouth," said Ben, "but I never thought much about them. That was apretty nice idea. There's some style to that front."

  "There was style, real dignified style to the houses of those days,"Tuckerman agreed. "We may think we're pretty smart nowadays, but let metell you those ancestors of ours who settled the country could teach usa good deal." He felt in his pocket for a key. "Well, the pineapple bidsus welcome. If there are any ghosts in the house, I think they'll turnout friendly."

  The lock was rusty, but finally opened to the new owner's efforts. Theystepped into a large hallway, from which a wide stairway ascended at oneside. Using his flashlight, Tuckerman discovered a gatelegged table, onwhich stood a cluster of small candlesticks, all ready for use.

  "Now that's something like--hospitality again!" he declared in a pleasedvoice. "They used candles in the old days; every guest in the house hadone to light him to bed. I suppose these have been waiting for me hereever since Uncle Christopher died." Lighting the candles with a match,he handed one to each of his companions. "I'm beginning to feel at homealready, boys. Welcome to Cotterell Hall."

  Even David, who could see nothing very thrilling in going over an oldhouse, felt something of the excitement that had so obviously takenpossession of John Tuckerman. As for Tom and Ben, they peered up thestairway and through the open doors as if they half-expected to seegentlemen in curled wigs, knee-breeches and small swords advancing tomeet them.

  Tuckerman led the way into the room on the left, a spacious apartment,wainscoted and with a pictured paper, representing scenes in fields andwoods, covering the walls to the ceiling. There was a large fireplace,with a carved mantel above it. Fine old pieces of furniture filled theroom, and, except for the musty air that is to be found in all housesthat have been closed for some time, the place looked precisely asthough it were lived in, even to a pile of magazines and books that layon the centre-table.

  "The drawing-room," said Tuckerman, holding his candle high as he gazedabout him. "And there, if I'm not mistaken, is old Sir Peter himself."

  Ben gave a start and looked quickly around. But it was not a ghost towhich Tuckerman referred; it was a large painting that hung on the wallacross from the fireplace, the portrait of a man in buff-colored coatand breeches, wearing a white tie-wig, and with his right hand restingon the head of a greyhound that rubbed against his knees.

  "Fine looking old fellow," said Tom.

  "Yes," agreed Tuckerman. "Sir Peter was really handsome. I've seenpictures of him before. He was a great beau in his time, before theRevolution. What a shame it was that he couldn't agree with hisneighbors about the right of the colonies to be free. That made itmighty hard for his wife and children."

  He went over to look closer at the portrait, and as he held the candlenear to the canvas he saw a folded piece of paper stuck into a corner ofthe heavy frame. "What's this?" he exclaimed, and drew the paper out."You don't suppose the old fellow has left me a message?"

  The candle set on the table, Tuckerman opened the sheet. "This is anauthentic portrait of Peter Cotterell, painted in 1770," he read aloud."He shared with me, his descendant, Christopher Cotterell, a dislike forthe society of his kind, though for a different reason. But with me theline of the Cotterells comes to an end, and I care not whether any nowlearn my ancestor's secret or not."

  Tuckerman dropped the paper. "So there was a secret, boys! You remember,Tom, what I told you. And Uncle Christopher knew what it was."

  "Hello!" exclaimed Ben. "My candle's blown out!" He turned. "Why, thatwindow's open a little at the bottom. See how the curtains blow."

  "Spooks," scoffed David. "It looks to me as if Crusty Christopher wereplaying a joke on us."