Tom laughed. “You can’t judge Sir Peter by yourself, Dave.”
“Certainly not,” was the instant reply. “I’ll admit we are very different. Nothing could induce me to have my picture taken with a dog like that greyhound cuddling up against my shins. The good people of Barmouth didn’t have any greyhounds or any pie crust tables or gate-legged tables, or whatever kind of tables it is that the Professor finds so delightful, and they were envious, and rowed their boats out here, and tramped up to the door, probably looking for all the world like a gang of hayseeds.”
“Remember, Dave, your ancestors and mine were probably among them.”
“I’ll admit that also,” said David, “and for the sake of your feelings, Tom, I’ll take back that about their looking like hayseeds. Let me put it this way. A crowd of very nice looking, but temporarily cross and angry people—men and women, and possibly a few dogs—come up to the house here and demand to see the elegant Sir Peter. Sir Peter doesn’t want to see them; he doesn’t approve of them; he thinks that good old King George is just about the proper cheese to rule over him and his. But Sir Peter’s a gentleman—you can see that from his portrait—and he doesn’t want to disappoint the neighbors, who’ve come all the way out here in boats. So he takes a pinch of snuff and he whistles to his greyhound and he goes out on the front steps. He looks down along his nose at the people of Barmouth and his right eye twinkles—you notice, Tom, that it’s his right eye that’s the humorous one—and he says: ‘Friends and fellow citizens, come in and enjoy yourselves. The green and gold pineapple is over the door and Cotterell Hall is yours for the afternoon. But the silver plate you’re so anxious to lay your hands on isn’t here any more. It’s vanished, vamoosed, flown away; and the family are using the plain blue and white china kitchen set.’ Did they believe him?”
“No,” sang out Tom.
“Exactly,” agreed David, with a bow. “They rushed past him into the house, and they threw things about, and they buzzed around like a nest of hornets you happen to hit with a stick. But they didn’t find anything after all; and the reason is simple—there wasn’t anything of the sort they had in mind to find. It was just Sir Peter’s little joke. And it worked to perfection. Ever since people have been wondering what he did with the silverware he mentioned that day. Sir Peter, my opinion of you is that you were a first-class joker.”
“You may be right,” Tom assented, “but for goodness’ sake don’t rub that idea in on Mr. Tuckerman and Ben. They’re thrilled to the fingertips about there being a treasure hidden away somewhere.”
“Babes in the wood!” sniffed David. “I believe you could put almost anything over on the Professor if you dressed it up in old clothes.”
To the skeptical David and the inclined-to-be-skeptical Tom the other two now appeared. They had been in the apartment on the second floor that had been Christopher Cotterell’s bedroom and had been rummaging through a little secretary that stood between the windows. Tuckerman had a notebook in his hand. “These are jottings my uncle made from time to time,” he declared. “Here’s one. ‘As regards the saying that the hiding-place is just beyond the three pines that stand between two rocks where the sun goes down, I have scoured and scoured the island, and come to the opinion that the extreme southwestern point must be the place intended, although to-day there are only two pines there. I have dug at this place, but found only sand.’”
“Maybe we can find another place that answers that description,” said Ben hopefully. “And it stands to reason that the four of us can dig better than your Uncle Christopher, even if he had his servant to help him.”