“You bet I’ll come,” announced the tow-headed one. “Do you think I’d let you two and a queer man go prowling around a mysterious island without your Uncle David? I’ll be there when the boat sails, with my pet frying-pan!”
II—COTTERELL’S ISLAND
Early the next afternoon the few occupants of Lowe’s Wharf—a couple of men fishing for cunners, a sailor painting the bottom of an upturned dory, two small boys practising tying various kinds of knots with odds and ends of rope—saw three young fellows in dark blue jerseys and khaki coats and trousers and a man rigged out in a homespun Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and greenish-gray golf stockings assemble as if they were about to start on an expedition.
Tom Hallett, slender but wiry, browned by the wind and the sun, dumped his duffle-bag of blankets and extra clothing on the wharf and introduced his companions. “Mr. Tuckerman, this is David Norton, and this is Ben Sully. They’d both like to go along, if you still want three of us.”
John Tuckerman shook hands with each. “I’m proud to have such a fine looking crew,” said he. “Though perhaps I ought to put it the other way about and say three such fine looking captains, I myself being the crew. It doesn’t need more than a glance to tell me that you three know all about the sea and the woods. Great luck, I call it. And if I’m not mistaken there’s our ship, waiting for us Argonauts to go aboard.”
At one side of the wharf, a man was holding the painter of an eighteen-foot sailing dory, already loaded with provisions and John Tuckerman’s bags. The three boys quickly had their own things stowed away. “All right, Mr. Jackson,” said Tuckerman to the man from whom he had rented the boat. “You see I’ve shipped a good crew. You needn’t lie awake nights wondering what’s happened to your Argo.”
The owner grinned. “I know ’em. I’ll trust ’em with the boat. But her name’s the Mary J. Jackson. See, it’s painted there in the bow.”
“So it is. Mary J. Jackson. That’s a very nice name; but somehow it doesn’t seem exactly to suit this business. We’re after the Golden Fleece, like the Argonauts of old; so if you don’t mind I’m going to christen her for this trip the Argo. Just a little fancy of mine.”
“Suit yerself, sir. She’s a good boat, no matter what you call her.”
“Many thanks, Mr. Jackson.” John Tuckerman sat down carefully. “Now, Captain Hallett, give your orders.”