The dory slid away, the experienced hand of Tom in charge of the tiller. Out into the harbor she sped, picking up the breeze as she danced along.
The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, the water was translucent blue, with here and there wide sweeps of green, on the shore every house and tree stood out in vivid, fresh-tinted color. Tuckerman folded his arms and leaned back in great contentment. “This is something like, my lads!” he exclaimed. “My voyages heretofore have only been made on ocean grayhounds and fat-bodied ferry-boats.”
Ben looked at him pityingly. “It must be pretty hard,” he said, “to live inland, in a big city.”
“Yes, in some ways, though it has its compensations. You see, my ancestors grew restless in New England and moved out across the plains. That is, the Tuckermans did; the Cotterells stayed here. And now there aren’t any Cotterells left. That’s how it came about that I own this island.”
“My father,” spoke up David, “says that the Cotterells were once one of the best known families in Barmouth; but that old Mr. Christopher was as queer as all get out. He knows lots of stories about him. He says that Mr. Christopher lived there with a colored man for his servant, and never saw anybody.”
“Poor old chap!” said Tuckerman. “I can’t help feeling dreadfully sorry for him. Think what a good time he could have had in his big house. Why, in the old days it was one of the show places along the coast and the Cotterells used to have celebrated parties.” Tuckerman gazed out over the water and pulled his chin with his fingers, in a habit he had. “Do you know what I want to do? I want to take that old house and fix it up properly, make it look as it used to, and give it back its good name.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll think it odd, but I feel as if houses were almost like people. I hate to see either the one or the other go to seed.”
“They are something like people,” Ben agreed. “There’s a church with a steeple in Barmouth that looks just like the pictures of the Pilgrim Fathers with their high-crowned hats. And the windows in front look like eyes, kind of boring eyes that are trying to see right through you.”
“Ben’s always thinking of queer things like that,” David explained, half in apology.
Mr. Tuckerman nodded at the small, dark-browed boy. “I’m glad that Ben came along. I think he’s going to be a great help in fixing up my house.”
In and out between islands, past long jutting ledges, where pine and juniper ran down to the water’s edge, the dory sailed smoothly. Sometimes Tom had to tack; again he ran for a stretch on a course due south. And after about an hour he raised his arm and pointed. “There—on the port bow—there she lies. See that white, sandy beach. That’s Cotterell’s Island.”