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.”
“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!”