Ben looked very much crestfallen. He fingered the suits, the snuff-box, the platters. “No,” he said, “it does seem mighty queer. And to think that Sampson brought these things over here, intending to take them away in a boat! I don’t understand it at all.”
“Never mind, Benjie.” Tom slapped his friend on the shoulder. “You found the chest anyway.”
“That’s right. You did,” said David. “You worked out the puzzle. It isn’t your fault if the treasure was just old junk.”
Ben was scratching his head. “But surely Sir Peter did have some valuable plate,” he argued. “The people of Barmouth knew that. Then what did he do with it?”
“Maybe he melted it down himself,” said David. “Anyhow it isn’t in that chest.”
“That’s so.” Ben picked up the snuff-box and stuck it in his pocket. “Where’s the Professor?”
“He went up to the house. Said he was going to write a letter,” Tom answered. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, old sport. I’ll take you out in the Argo and let you have some fishing.”
The chest was shut again and pushed back into the pocket. Ben regained his fishing-rod and tackle, and the three embarked in the sailboat. And presently the satisfaction of pulling flounders on board made Ben forget everything else.
When they returned to camp, with a fine catch of fish, they found John Tuckerman busy preparing dinner. Ben told his story, while Tuckerman listened with the greatest interest. “It does seem odd,” he said, when Ben had finished. “Most peculiar, in fact.” He mused a moment, his eyes regarding the water. “But then my good old ancestor Sir Peter was an odd kind of fish. I wonder now—do you suppose he could possibly have been planning to have a joke at the expense of his Barmouth neighbors?”
“You mean,” said Tom, “that he might have hid those things expecting the neighbors to find them?”