“In a way. I wanted to find out if he’d lost a silver snuff-box.”
“A snuff-box? That’s interesting. But I don’t think Joseph Hastings takes snuff.”
Ben drew the box from his pocket. The man in green looked at it. “Now where did you find this?” he asked.
“On an island in Barmouth Harbor,” said Ben. “Cotterell’s Island, it’s called.”
“Well!” exclaimed the man. “Well, well—you don’t say so!” He looked at the boy in the car with a new interest. “So that’s where you come from, is it?” He returned the snuff-box. “May I be so inquisitive as to ask your name?”
“Benjamin Sully.”
“Thank you. My own appellation is Roderick Fitzhugh. If you have no objection, Mr. Sully, I should greatly enjoy the pleasure of riding with you.”
Ben didn’t know what to say; and Mr. Fitzhugh evidently took his silence for consent, for he immediately hopped into the seat beside the driver.
“That’s all right,” said Ben; “but you see I wasn’t thinking of riding anywhere. I came to find out whether Mr. Hastings had lost a snuff-box on Cotterell’s Island.”
“Just so. But you can’t find that out, as he’s not at home at present. And meantime I suggest that we go on a little adventure. A fine day, a steed with plenty of gasoline, and two gentlemen looking for amusement.”