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Ebook has 1564 lines and 58814 words, and 32 pages

Illustrator: Will Thomson

PETER COTTERELL'S TREASURE

PETER COTTERELL'S TREASURE

RUPERT SARGENT HOLLAND

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Table of Contents

John Tuckerman sat down carefully, "Now, Captain Hallett, give your orders."

In the marshy ground in front of them were two distinct footprints.

"Sampson put the chest there," he concluded.

"My wardrobe is still upstairs. Make what use of it you please."

I--JOHN TUCKERMAN COMES TO BARMOUTH

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."

"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?"

"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.

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