Peter Cotterell's Treasure

by Rupert Sargent Holland

  V--THE MAHOGANY MAN

  Mr. Tuckerman was doing the crawl-stroke--slowly and laboriously, withalmost as much splashing as a small paddle-wheel steamboat makes--butstill very much better than he had been able to do it two days before.He was heading toward a rock, on which Tom, straight as an arrow andalmost as brown as a chocolate drop, stood with his arms pointedoutward, ready to dive.

  Ben stood back of Tom, slapping his dripping thighs and hopping about onhis toes. In the water David was floating, as comfortable and serene asa harbor seal taking an afternoon nap. "Look out, Professor," hecautioned; "Tom might land on your head. He's a terrible practicaljoker. Don't you let him use you as a cushion."

  Tuckerman plowed along, gasping a little, his eyes fixed on the rock.

  Tom dove, and came up alongside David. "If I was picking out a cushion,I'd take you. You'd make a bully springboard. Push right along, Mr.Tuckerman. You're doing nobly."

  Ben gave a whoop. "Look out there!" Lithe as an eel, and seemingly madeof rubber, he sprang from the rock, turned a somersault, and shotsmoothly into the water. He reappeared, looking like a porpoise, hisblack hair all shiny, and with a few lusty flaps reached the rock againjust as Tuckerman, breathless, put out his hands to clutch at theslippery side.

  "You're a regular flying-fish," Ben complimented Tuckerman, as thelatter, careful not to scrape too close against the rough edge of rock,drew himself slowly up to the level top. "I don't believe any of yourfriends out in the plain country of Illinois would know you if theyhappened to see you now."

  "I don't believe they would," agreed Tuckerman, sitting down gingerlyand embracing his knees with his hands. "I know I look like a redIndian, and I feel as if I'd got a thousand more muscles than I ever hadbefore."

  "If you don't mind----" said Ben; and putting his hands on Tuckerman'sshoulders he made a leap-frog jump over the latter's head and splashedloudly into the water.

  "Well," said David, changing his position from floating to treadingwater, "I think the coffee must be boiling now. It's time I droppedthose eggs." And with leisurely strokes he made for the beach, where hehad thoughtfully left a Turkish towel beside his pile of clothes.

  The others followed suit, and had soon arrayed themselves in the fewgarments they thought needful to wear in their island home. David pouredthe coffee and attended to the toast and eggs, which had been procuredthe day before from a farmer on the mainland. And as they ate, Benpropounded the question:

  "Fellows, what was it Christopher Cotterell said about a mahogany man?"

  "He said," Tuckerman answered, "'Find the mahogany-hued man with thelong, skinny legs and look in his breast pocket.'"

  "Exactly," said Ben slowly. "Well, I've got an idea I know where to findthat man."

  The other three looked at him in utter amazement. "The dickens you have,Benjie!" retorted Tom. "Why, he couldn't be alive now."

  "Perhaps Ben thinks he's a mummy," suggested David, "or a piece of woodthat's turned to stone."

  "Maybe I do," Ben chuckled. "You're getting warm, old horse. Long,skinny legs--doesn't that remind you of something? Haven't you seen anythat answer that description in this neighborhood?"

  "You're not referring to mine?" asked Tuckerman.

  The breakfast-party laughed, the Professor wore such a look of injureddignity.

  "No, sir, not to yours," Ben said. "Yours are fat as a drum compared tothose I have in mind."

  "I remember Ben mumbled something about this last night," mused Tom."But I was too sleepy to listen. He said something about Sally Hooper,too; something about her giving him an idea."

  Ben nodded. "So she did."

  "Didn't I always claim that our Benjie was a real detective?" saidDavid. "Clean up first; and then for the yarn."

  Breakfast things were put away in their box, and then the three turnedto Ben. "Where's your mahogany man?" they demanded in one voice.

  "There's no hurry," was the tantalizing answer. "Perhaps I'd better gofishing first."

  Tom laid his hand on the other boy's shoulder and twisted him around."Lead us to him," he commanded.

  Ben shrugged. "Oh, very well. You're more interested than you were lastnight. Come along, but don't make any noise."

  He led them to Cotterell Hall. Tuckerman had locked the front door afterthe girls had left on the night before, and now he opened it with thekey he kept in his trouser pocket.

  Ben led them into the hall, and then into the big front room, which wasnow flooded with sunlight.

  "Look around," he announced; "and tell me what you see."

  They looked about the room with puzzled faces. "Rats!" exclaimed David."I don't see any man here."

  Ben glanced at Tuckerman. "Long, skinny, mahogany-colored legs," hemurmured.

  "Not Sir Peter's portrait?" said Tuckerman.

  Ben walked across the room in the direction of the secretary. "WhenSally came in here last night," he explained, "she said something aboutthis desk. 'Mahogany, I suppose--and what long, fluted, shiny legs.'Well, it has, hasn't it?" He laid his hand on the secretary. "Mightn'tthis be the man?"

  "You're joking," Tom protested; while David looked from the desk to hisfriend's serious face as if he thought Ben must be plain crazy.

  Tuckerman, however, laid his hand also on the piece of furniture. "Theyliked their little joke in the old days," he observed. "It might be,Ben. If that's so----" He turned the small brass key in the lock of thelid, and pulling out the two supports on either side of the lowerdrawers let the lid down on them. "If that's so; and this is themahogany man--where's his breast pocket?"

  There were small drawers inside, and a row of pigeonholes to either sideof a central compartment that was also locked by a key.

  "Somewhere up in his chest," said Ben.

  Tuckerman pulled out the drawers and emptied their contents, smallobjects, keys, pencils, bits of sealing-wax, a few sheets of blankpaper. He put his hand in the pigeonholes and drew out several bundlesof letters. "I've been through all these things before," he said with ashake of his head.

  "That place in the middle," Tom suggested.

  "Only an ink-stand," said Tuckerman; and unlocking the little door hedrew forth a big glass inkstand with a brass top. That was all there wasin the little cupboard; all the contents of the upper part of thesecretary were arrayed on the lid.

  "No go," said David. "The man hasn't anything in his pocket to give usany clue."

  "I must say," said Tom, "it does seem ridiculous to me that anyone couldhave meant that desk----"

  "I've heard," mumbled Ben, who was paying no attention to what theothers were saying, "that old desks have secret compartments. Mygrandfather has an old one that looks something like this. Let mesee----" He slipped his hand into the pigeonhole on the right of thelittle door Tuckerman had unlocked, and began to feel around. "I say!Here's something. It feels like a wooden spring."

  Tuckerman put his hand into the central compartment. "Push on thespring," he directed.

  Ben pushed and Tuckerman at the same moment pulled out the cupboard thathad harbored the inkstand. It was a box that fitted snugly into thecentre of the secretary.

  "Well, that's a great stunt," said Tom. "It comes to pieces like a nestof drawers."

  The four, their heads close together, looked into the space from whichthe cupboard had come.

  All they saw was an unvarnished piece of pine board, apparently the backof the desk.

  "Looks like my grandfather's," said Ben. "Yes, there's a couple ofholes." And putting his forefinger and thumb into two indentations inthe wood at the back, he wriggled his hand around and drew out a smalldrawer.

  "Empty!" he muttered, disappointed, holding the drawer so that theothers could see.

  Again he put his hand into the opening and drew out a second drawer thathad been under the first one. This also was empty.

  "One more chance." He pulled out the bottom drawer. In this there wassomething. Holding it upside down, a small roll of paper fell out on thelid
of the desk.

  "A piece of parchment," said Tuckerman, picking up the roll. He openedit out, holding it taut in his two hands.

  All eyes focussed on the sheet, on which were scrawled, in a faintpurplish ink, these lines:

  I took the box cliff where was meaning to es but they were and so I hid pocket in the are two big make a mark

  Tuckerman read these words aloud, three times over. Then he gave agrunt. "Well, that's that. And it's not so very illuminating, is it?"

  Ben took the parchment. "Somebody's cut it across. See, the right handwords are close to the edge. How disgusting!"

  David and Tom each handled the parchment, which was finally laid on thedesk-lid, with the inkstand to keep it from curling up into its originaltight roll.

  David stroked his chin, pretending to be lost in thought. "Somebody tookthe box--to the cliff--but they were--and so somebody hid the box--inhis pocket--there are two big--that make a mark. I gather from that lineabout the pocket that the box was pretty small."

  "It doesn't say he hid it in his pocket," Ben objected. "It might havebeen a pocket in the cliff just as well."

  "Who do you suppose he was?" asked Tom.

  "Why, Peter Cotterell, of course," David answered promptly.

  "I don't know about that," said Tuckerman. "This handwriting doesn'tlook like that of a man who was used to holding the pen. See how he'sgone over some of the letters several times, as if he wasn't preciselysure how he ought to form them. Sir Peter was a well-educated gentleman.He must have known how to use a quill."

  "Perhaps he wanted to disguise his handwriting," David suggested.

  "Why would he want to do that?" Ben retorted. "Whoever wrote that meantto leave a record of what he'd done with the box. There wouldn't be anysense in faking his handwriting--certainly not if he intended to hidethe parchment away in a secret drawer of the desk."

  "What sense would there be in his cutting it in two then?" Tom inquired.

  Tuckerman, who was sitting on the arm of a chair, threw back his headand laughed. "Here we are arguing about something that happened ever solong ago, and we haven't the least idea why it happened this way." Heturned to the portrait on the wall and shook his finger at it. "You--orsome of your household--knew how to make first-class puzzles, SirPeter." Then, as he swung around to the three boys, he added:

  "My guess is that there's a pocket in a cliff somewhere on this island,and that there is--or was--a box hidden in it."

  "Find the cliff," said Tom.

  Ben shook his head. "There are dozens of cliffs."

  "Well, you won't find anything more in your mahogany man's breastpocket," Tom answered. "You can see for yourself it's empty."

  "My idea is," said David, "that we get the _Argo_ and sail round theisland till we sight a likely-looking cliff."

  "That appeals to me," agreed Tuckerman, "and Tom can give me anotherlesson in how to handle a boat."

  The parchment was put in its drawer, the three drawers replaced, thecupboard pushed back and caught by its spring, and the desk-lid liftedand locked.

  "I'd a heap rather hunt for clues out of doors on a day like this," saidDavid.

  But Ben sat down on a divan. "I want to do a little thinking, fellows.You go along without me. Maybe I'll go fishing for dinners off the rocksafter a while."

  They laughed at Ben; but he would not be dissuaded. He wanted to do somethinking, and he meant to. "Stubborn as a mule," said Tom. "He gets hismind set on a thing, and dynamite won't budge him."

  So the others went down to the sailboat; and presently Ben, getting upfrom the divan, went out and cut himself a stick of willow. He broughtit back and began to whittle shavings all over the hardwood floor ofCotterell Hall. He had seen men down on the Barmouth docks whittleshavings for hours, and he had copied the habit. He found it a greathelp when he wanted to think things out.