"Of course the first settlers," said the old man, "were fishermen, and they were always a pretty rough lot, though the Reverend John Brock did something to improve them. There are all kinds of stories going about pirates and wrecks and strange happenings in the old times."
"I suppose Captain Kidd buried some of his treasure here," said Herbert sarcastically.
"That he did, at least they say so," responded Captain Dickerson; "and if you and the young ladies are real enterprising, you might dig a while, for it's never been found, and you've as good a chance as any one."
"Thanks," said Herbert, rather taken aback by finding that his chance arrow had hit the mark, "but we've other things to do to-day. Sometime, perhaps, we'll return."
"Well," said the old man, "there's a chance that other treasure might do you just as well. Nigh a hundred years ago, a Spanish ship went to pieces on the islands, and there were other wrecks that perhaps cast treasure on the sands."
"Oh, I remember," exclaimed Clare, "a poem that I learned at school, 'The Wreck of the Pocahontas.' Celia Thaxter wrote it. It begins something like this:—
"'I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower,
For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;
They shone like a glorious clustered flower,
Ten golden and five red.'"
"Ah, Mrs. Thaxter," said Capt. Dickerson, "there isn't much on the islands that she hasn't put into poetry. But you'll hear all about her over at Appledore, and I won't spoil your fun by trying to tell what other people can tell better."
"Haven't you some stories of your own?"