cook—to cook the sort of things campers eat, I mean?”

“I can cook some things. But my friend David Norton can cook almost anything. He’s one of the fellows I meant.”

“It would be splendid if we could get David, too. I’d take along plenty of provisions, but one does get tired of living on canned things.”

“Ben Sully’s a corking fisherman,” said Tom. “Ben and David and I have camped out a lot together.”

“I’d like to keep the expedition as quiet as I can,” Mr. Tuckerman stated. “I don’t want a lot of curiosity-seekers poking round the island.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Tom. “I’ll swear both of them to secrecy; except to their families, of course. You wouldn’t mind our telling our parents?”

To that John Tuckerman agreed. “This is just what I hoped to find,” he said, “some young fellows with the spirit of adventure. You know the ropes, and I don’t. Let’s see; what’s your name?”

Tom told him. “Wouldn’t you like to come in and see my father?” he suggested.

“I must be getting back to the hotel,” said Tuckerman. “You tell him my name, and say I’m Mr. Cotterell’s nephew. You sign up to go, do you? And you’ll try to get your two messmates? I’ll see to the boat and grub and cooking outfit—and I think I can promise you a bit of adventure.”

“If Father says yes, I sign,” agreed Tom, smiling at the man’s air of business. “And the more adventure there is, the better I’ll like it, too. Things are sort of quiet here this summer.”

Tuckerman held out his hand. He had a formal manner about him that amused Tom greatly. “See you at Lowe’s Wharf at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right,” said Tom, shaking hands. “And I’ll have the other two fellows there with me. They’ve always wanted to have a look at that island.”

The tall, lank man turned, and shortly disappeared behind the big clump of lilac bushes at the corner of Wentworth Street. Tom, thoughtfully jingling a bunch of keys in his trouser pocket, chuckled as he considered the situation. In fifteen minutes this Mr. John Tuckerman, a total stranger, had persuaded him to camp out for a fortnight or so on Crusty Christopher’s island. Tom could well believe that Mr. Tuckerman needed some companions who were used to the water and campcraft; he looked as if he might be a Professor and more knowing about history and such things than about how to reef a sail or hook a flounder.

Still grinning at this unusual happening, Tom went into the house, where in the sitting-room his father was reading, his mother sewing, and his sister Milly trimming a new straw hat. “I’m going camping on Cotterell’s Island,” he declared. “It’s a sort of a secret, so you must all promise not to tell.”

Milly looked up quickly. “On Cotterell’s Island? If you step ashore there, somebody’ll pitch you off.”

“Oh no, they won’t. I’m going with the owner.”

Milly wrinkled her nose, as she did when she felt scornful. “I suppose that pleasant old man has sent you an invitation. ‘Dear Mr. Thomas Hallett, I should be so delighted if you’d drop in on me.’” And Milly tilted the straw hat on her hand so as to judge the effect of the ribbon around the brim.

Tom walked across to the fireplace, where he stood with his back to the hearth, as his father often did when he had an announcement to make. “Mr. Christopher Cotterell is dead,” he said. “I received my invitation from his nephew, Mr. John Tuckerman.”

Milly turned around, surprised. “What are you springing on us? Where did you meet this man?”

“Down at the gate to-night,” said Tom calmly. “He wanted a likely young fellow to help him explore the house and the island he’s inherited, and naturally he came to me.”

“Yes, what Tom says is quite true,” declared Mr. Hallett. “Mr. Tuckerman is the new owner. So he asked you to help him, did he?”

“He called himself a landlubber. I’ve an idea too that he doesn’t want to stay on the island alone. I’m to get Ben and David, and we’re to sail his boat for him and fish and cook and keep him company.”

“Humph!” sniffed Milly. “That doesn’t sound very exciting. You’re to do the work while he loafs around.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. He hinted that we might find something very interesting. He called it an adventure. And he let slip something about a mystery.”

Milly put the hat down. She herself was very fond of camping and sailing and swimming, and although she pretended to be quite grown up she still yearned at times for her old tomboy ways. “I suppose he isn’t going to be like Old Crusty—I mean Mr. Christopher Cotterell? He won’t mind people coming out to see that queer old house.”

“That’s just what he does mind,” said Tom. “He wants to keep the whole thing dark, for the present, at least. Why, if he didn’t, all Barmouth would be going out there. Most of them never got nearer the place than to read the signs; and they’d all be crazy to go.”

“Well, it seems to me,” argued Milly, “if he’s going to explore the house he ought to have someone out there who knows something about furnishings. I daresay there’s lots of old silver and curtains and rugs and maybe chests of fine linen. Now of course a woman—well, it’s only natural that a woman—you know what I mean, a woman could help a great deal in sorting such things out.”

“When you say a woman,” inquired Tom, “do you happen to be thinking of Miss Milly Hallett?”

Milly, in spite of her tan, flushed a fiery red. “You know perfectly well, Tom, that you’ve always said I was a great help on a camping party.”

“So you are, Milly,” Tom admitted loyally. “You cook better even than Dave does. But Mr. Tuckerman didn’t say anything about bringing a girl along. I’m afraid he’d think that wouldn’t be business-like.”

“Tom’s right, Milly dear,” said Mrs. Hallett. “This is Mr. Tuckerman’s affair, and it wouldn’t be right to offer him any suggestions. But perhaps, while they’re out on the island, he wouldn’t mind if some day we went over to look at the house. When do you start, Tom?”

“To-morrow at two—that is, if father says it’s all right.”

“Oh, you’re going to ask my consent, are you?” said Mr. Hallett, with a smile. “Well, if Mr. Tuckerman is such a landlubber as he appears to be, I think it’s only right you should give him your help. I don’t see how, with Ben and David and you, he can possibly get into hot water.”

“He can’t,” agreed Milly, picking up the hat again and pretending to shiver. “The water isn’t even warm around the islands in the harbor. However, I don’t suppose this Mr. Tuckerman is apt to care much for swimming.” And as she went on twirling the hat in her hands and puffing out the big blue bow, she hummed a little tune to indicate that she was much more interested in her millinery than in Tom’s prospective adventure.

Tom walked down the street to the small, pitched-roof house—a white house with green shutters and door, and tall pink and red hollyhocks standing up against the sides—where Benjamin Sully lived. As luck would have it, David Norton was sitting with Ben on the doorstep. “Hello!” cried Tom. “I’m looking for a couple of able-bodied seamen.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Ben. “What port are you bound for—the Barbary Coast or Barbadoes or round the Cape of Good Hope?”

Ben was a small, dark boy, agile as a monkey. When he was with David Norton he looked smaller and darker than ever, for David was big of frame and his sandy hair topped a cheerful, freckled face. These two and Tom Hallett were about of an age, and had always shared each other’s secrets.

“Cotterell’s Island, lads. A place where the foot of a white man has never set heel before.” And standing in front of