“Did you ever hear of Cotterell’s Island?” The stranger lowered his voice.
Tom nodded. “Of course I have. We call it Crusty Christopher’s Island around here.”
“Have you ever been on it?”
“No,” Tom was forced to admit. “The man who lives there won’t let any one land. He’s put up signs warning people off and he keeps watch-dogs.”
“The island belongs to me,” announced the stranger, “and I’m going to camp out on it.”
Tom stared at the man in surprise. “But surely you’re not Crusty Christopher!” he exclaimed. “I always heard he was old and had a white beard.”
“Mr. Christopher Cotterell,” explained the stranger, “was my uncle; though as a matter of fact I only saw him once, when I was a small boy. He died last year and I have inherited his island and the house on it. The house has a history. I’m very much interested in old houses, and particularly in this one. My name is John Tuckerman.”
“Well,” said Tom, “that’s interesting, to be sure. I hope you don’t think I meant to call your uncle names.”
“Oh no, you didn’t offend me,” said the man promptly. “I’ve heard him called Crusty Christopher before, and I shouldn’t wonder if he deserved the nickname. There have been a number of queer characters in the Cotterell family; there was old Sir Peter Cotterell, for instance, who built that house on the island and lived there during the Revolution.”
“Sir Peter?” queried Tom. “I don’t seem to remember him.”