“I think it’s a great idea,” Ben proceeded, as usual paying no attention to David’s jibe. “It’ll put Barmouth on the map. ‘Cotterell Hall, the most famous treasure house on the Atlantic Coast!’”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word ‘treasure,’” Tom protested. “It has a hoodoo sound.”
“And speaking of putting things on the map,” said Tuckerman, “here’s the wharf ahead. Don’t get me all excited while I bring her up to the dock.”
The Argo made a perfect landing. “Good enough,” said Tom. “That couldn’t have been done better. Professor, you’re a dandy.”
They went up the main street and turned off to the elm-shaded lane where the Halletts lived. They were going to call on Milly Hallett.
Milly was at home. She was, in fact, enjoying an afternoon nap in the Nantucket hammock on the side porch when Tom spied her from the lane.
The sound of footsteps woke her, and seeing who was coming in at the gate she swung her feet down from the hammock, smoothed her rumpled skirt, and patted her fluffy hair. And because she still felt a trifle piqued that Tom was having all the fun of camping on Cotterell’s Island, she decided on the spur of the moment to be a little standoffish with the callers.
“Hello, Milly,” said her brother, in the offhand way brothers have, “we thought we’d come over to see how you were getting along.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tuckerman,” said Milly, standing up and giving that gentleman the tips of her fingers. “I hope the boys are looking after you all right on your island.”
“I can’t complain,” smiled Tuckerman. “We do as well as we can, without any ladies to help us.”