XI—THE MAN IN GREEN
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.”