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.”