his two friends, Tom related John Tuckerman’s proposal.

When he had finished, Ben nodded. “The plan sounds good to me. I’ve always meant to have a look at that island. As I’ve sized it up, Crusty Christopher wouldn’t have been so concerned to keep people away if he hadn’t had something he wanted to keep secret.”

“I don’t know about that,” said David. “Some people are made that way; they just naturally don’t want other folks around. Maybe the place is just like any other island.”

“Well, I’m going anyhow,” declared Tom. “I guess I can look after Mr. Tuckerman all right by myself. But I didn’t want to seem mean and leave you two out.”

Ben jumped up. “I’m going, all right. I’d hate to think of you and that ignorant fellow out there all by yourselves. Count me in on this, Tom.”

“I guess your friend wouldn’t get much good cooking,” said David, “without me to superintend.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” retorted Tom. “He’s going to take plenty of good stuff.”

“Canned!” snorted David. “I know—hardtack and beans out of a tin. No, siree. You’d be squabbling inside of two days if you didn’t have me and some of my famous flapjacks to keep you pleasant.”

“Nice, modest David,” said Ben, stroking his big friend’s arm. “However, though he doesn’t think very well of himself, I vote that we let him come along. Maybe he’ll be useful.”

“You bet I’ll come,” announced the tow-headed one. “Do you think I’d let you two and a queer man go prowling around a mysterious island without your Uncle David? I’ll be there when the boat sails, with my pet frying-pan!”

II—COTTERELL’S ISLAND

Early the next afternoon the few occupants of Lowe’s Wharf—a couple of men fishing for cunners, a sailor painting the bottom of an upturned dory, two small boys practising tying various kinds of knots with odds and ends of rope—saw three young fellows in dark blue jerseys and khaki coats and trousers and a man rigged out in a homespun Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and greenish-gray golf stockings assemble as if they were about to start on an expedition.

Tom Hallett, slender but wiry, browned by the wind and the sun, dumped his duffle-bag of blankets and extra clothing on the wharf and introduced his companions. “Mr. Tuckerman, this is David Norton, and this is Ben Sully. They’d both like to go along, if you still want three of us.”

John Tuckerman shook hands with each. “I’m proud to have such a fine looking crew,” said he. “Though perhaps I ought to put it the other way about and say three such fine looking captains, I myself being the crew. It doesn’t need more than a glance to tell me that you three know all about the sea and the woods. Great luck, I call it. And if I’m not mistaken there’s our ship, waiting for us Argonauts to go aboard.”

At one side of the wharf, a man was holding the painter of an eighteen-foot sailing dory, already loaded with provisions and John Tuckerman’s bags. The three boys quickly had their own things stowed away. “All right, Mr. Jackson,” said Tuckerman to the man from whom he had rented the boat. “You see I’ve shipped a good crew. You needn’t lie awake nights wondering what’s happened to your Argo.”

The owner grinned. “I know ’em. I’ll trust ’em with the boat. But her name’s the Mary J. Jackson. See, it’s painted there in the bow.”

“So it is. Mary J. Jackson. That’s a very nice name; but somehow it doesn’t seem exactly to suit this business. We’re after the Golden Fleece, like the Argonauts of old; so if you don’t mind I’m going to christen her for this trip the Argo. Just a little fancy of mine.”

“Suit yerself, sir. She’s a good boat, no matter what you call her.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Jackson.” John Tuckerman sat down carefully. “Now, Captain Hallett, give your orders.”

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.”

Ben and David were familiar with the look of the place of course; they had cruised around it many times, and had always examined it with particular interest because it was a forbidden shore; but now they gazed at it as though it were somehow entirely new, as indeed it was to them, except for the beach and trees.

John Tuckerman nodded. “I’ll take your word for it, Tom. It lies exactly where it should according to the map of the harbor; though I can’t say that it looks very much like the small red dot on the chart Mr. Jackson showed me at his boathouse.”

There was not much to be seen except the whitish-yellow beach, several headlands of purple rock, and thick-growing pines that stood out black-green. There was, however, considerable to be heard as the sailing dory drew near. An immense cawing came from the tree-tops, and finally as the Argo nosed along close to the shore at least a score of crows flapped away from their meeting-place and went winging off to a more secluded grove.

“Uncle Christopher’s neighbors don’t seem to like visitors any better than he