“My grandfather, Roger Bardwell, listened to her tale and forbade her telling it to any one further. He questioned the minister next day however, who admitted that he had had such a visitor but was sworn to secrecy concerning his errand. And in the graveyard on the hill there were fresh footprints in the snow leading up to the spot where Master Simon sleeps. So it must have been Samuel Skerry that came, but whether his purpose was good or evil no one can tell. He may have been plotting some new villainy, yet I think—yes, I have thought it often—that in his years of loneliness in a foreign land the little shoemaker came at last to repent of his jealousy and ill-will and returned finally to make tardy amends. But what his errand was, or what message he left with the Hopewell minister is a secret still unrevealed.”
Stephen took the thin, old silver coin that Amos had laid upon his pillow and turned it over and over.
“You should not give it to me, Cousin Amos,” he said. “You should keep it still to bring you fair winds and prosperous voyages.”
“It has not always brought me those,” laughed Amos. “And of what use are fair winds, when fewer and fewer of our ships are permitted to put to sea? No, it is a better luck penny for a lad than for a man, for, as old Betsey said, it requires much good fortune to keep boys from destroying themselves before they grow to man’s estate. So do you keep it and if it saves you from tumbling out of any more treetops I shall be satisfied.”
Captain Amos’ visit was all too short. In spite of many protests from Alisoun and loud lamentations from all the children, he set out two mornings later for Salem, whither important business called him. Stephen grieved so much over his playmate’s going that he quite forgot that this was the great day for his first expedition abroad. His faithful servant, Sergeant Branderby, had not forgotten, however, and came that afternoon, true to his promise, to carry the boy down to the shore.
“I think it must be Samuel Skerry’s lucky penny,” said Stephen as they set forth, “that has given us so fine a day.”
It was indeed weather that could scarcely have been bettered, for the cloudless sky was glowing blue and the sea was bluer still. The little waves splashed merrily as they came tumbling in, the smooth hard sand sparkled in the sun and even the tiny grey sandpipers running back and forth across the beach seemed to be bidding them all welcome. The boy’s two sisters and fat little Peter came also to play at the water’s edge, while Stephen sat sheltered from the wind and propped against a huge, grey rock that lay like some sleeping monster in the midst of the drifting sand.
The children were sailing toy boats, bits of board with paper sails, launching them with some difficulty through the breaking waves, but watching with cries of joy when one after another of the little craft caught the wind and sped away. Only Peter’s clumsily whittled vessel came to grief so often and was upset and washed back upon the beach so many times that finally, half crying, the little boy brought it to Stephen.
“Do make it sail,” he said. “I know that you can do somewhat to make it pass all the others.”
“Give me your knife then,” said Stephen. Peter’s coming had interrupted his absorbing talk with Sergeant Branderby, but Stephen could not, even on that account, seem unwilling to help his small friend. He had an odd skill with toy boats and could always make his sail when the others foundered.