by Van Reid
“Nonsense!” insisted James half an hour later when, at a celebration over tea in the parlor, Sundry apologized again for his failure to rescue the treasure. “Mr. Thump’s story alone is nearly worth it. I am convinced that nobody could have done more. Am I correct, Mister Walton?”
“I agree completely,” said the portly fellow, with pride in his young friend.
“I think it very brave of you, Mr. Moss,” said Priscilla, surprising even herself. She had not said a word since the two men arrived, and now she glanced from Sundry to her mother to her own hands, folded upon her knees, with sudden embarrassment.
“I was about to say the same thing,” said Mercia to cover her niece’s discomfort.
It was Sundry’s nature to deprecate any honor directed towards himself, but such a tack seemed ungallant in this instance. “Thank you, Miss Morningside,” he said simply, thinking that he could have fought Benning’s entire gang for that single bit of praise.
This exchange delighted Cordelia more than anything else since she had returned home, and she was not careful in hiding her pleasure.
Ethan was impatient to hear the details of Sundry’s story, and said so.
The entire saga was retold from numerous points of view as the afternoon wore on; the Underwoods recounting Cordelia’s abduction and the adventures leading to it, while Mister Walton and Sundry informed their hosts firsthand of the tail end of the tale—of the curious card game, the false telegram, and the runaway wagon. They told of their search through Bangor for the past two weeks and the little they were able to ascertain.
And the only element left out of their story was the name of John Benning.
Cordelia had seldom seen her Aunt Grace so at ease as in the presence of Mister Walton. The gentle fellow’s sense of decorum was more the result of a sweet nature and an innate kindness than it was of social study, and it was this that lent him such a gentle force. Erudite, traveled, and (above all) interested, Mister Walton had the power to dismantle the walls of stiff propriety by respecting them, and having none of his own. The gentlest rain, it is said, can break stone; and Cordelia was beginning to think that her aunt was not as stony as she had come to believe.
Grace responded to Mister Walton with interest, with a soft dignity and an uncharacteristic smile. In the front hall—while Mister Walton and Sundry said their goodbyes—she startled the Underwoods (and her own children) by insisting several times over that the two men visit her home in Ellsworth.
Mister Walton seemed taken with the idea; and Sundry, who thought there was a great deal to admire in the daughter, wondered aloud if Priscilla might care to show him about her hometown.
Priscilla managed “Yes, of course!”—a short sentence, propelled in part by a moderately subtle jab in the ribs from Cordelia.
Once Mister Walton and Sundry were descending to the front walk—turning to wave and say goodbye at every second step—Cordelia felt that she could watch no more. She gave one last wave and returned to the parlor, where an overwhelming sense of sadness welled up within her. The sight of the empty, scattered tea things made her feel like crying. Instead she began to pick them up, their clatter sounding unnaturally loud.
“There are some very nice people, aren’t there, Cord,” said Priscilla, standing thoughtfully in the doorway.
“Yes,” agreed Cordelia with some difficulty. “There are.”
“I do think Mr. Moss was very brave.”
“I know you do. You said so.”
“Oh, dear! Did I make a fool of myself?”
Cordelia paused in her gathering to look up at Priscilla fondly. She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. “No, quite the contrary,” she replied.
“Cordelia,” called her mother. “Could you come out here?”
Mercia too had felt a certain sadness to see Mister Walton and Sundry leave, as if their stories had diverged for the final time. I shall have to look for mention of the Moosepath League in the papers, she thought as she watched the two men reach their carriage.
A second vehicle had pulled up before the Underwoods’ lawn, and a tall man stepped from it and inquired something of Mister Walton. He held flowers in one hand—not as some men do, like a truncheon, or as others, like a dying bird, but with a decisive authority.
“Hmm,” said James, beside his wife.
The man shook hands with Mister Walton and Sundry, then looked up the walk and strode in the direction of the house. He was dressed handsomely in a dark suit and top hat, his frock coat opened to reveal the silk-faced collar and revers, the patterned vest and gold watch-fob. He wore a dark, neatly trimmed beard and mustaches.
“My goodness,” said Grace. “Another visitor.”
Halfway up the walk, the man officially took note of the people in the doorway and took his hat in his free hand.
“Cordelia,” called Mercia again. “Could you come out here?”
There were several moments before Cordelia appeared in the hall from the parlor, her arms filled with tea things. Looking past her parents and her Aunt Grace and Ethan, into the bright light of the summer afternoon, she felt a sudden shock as the newcomer mounted the steps.
He stood just outside the doorway, looking past the parents and the aunt and the young boy. Cordelia stood at the end of the hall, a blue silk flower in her red hair, her arms filled with cups and saucers, her expression startled . . . though, he hoped, not dismayed.
“Miss Underwood,” he said, his voice large and resonant in the hall.
“Mr. Scott,” said she, clearly not dismayed.
“Please come in,” said James, after a brief silence.
Mercia deftly lifted the disarray from her daughter’s hands as she passed. “I will put on the kettle,” she said calmly.
And walking into the kitchen, the mother thought that some stories might converge a final time, as well.
JULY 31, 1896
Inspector Pue stood at the Commercial Street entrance to Portland’s Custom House and took a moment from his busy day to peer out over the crowded wharf, hoping to pick out the indolent figure of Horace McQuinn.
It had been warm in his office, even with the windows open; hardly a breeze stirred, though thunderstorms were expected. The sky was gray-blue, with a muted haze, and the day glared brightly, so that he squinted from one cluttered end of his view to the other. Those men whose employment took them to the wharves mixed darkly with the white dresses and summery jackets of languid strollers who came here simply to gain the benefit of whatever breeze the harbor could offer. Inspector Pue would welcome the storm.
Five men stood several feet away, gazing up at the Custom House with admiration. Inspector Pue was gratified by their respectful attention, but a little embarrassed as well, as if they were gazing at him with such interest, and he was about to turn back inside—back to his duties—when he recognized one of them.
“Mr. Pue,” came a voice.
“Mister Walton,” said the inspector, and he reversed his steps so that he might greet the portly fellow and shake his hand.
“Good heavens!” said Mister Walton. “It seems a year since we met!”
“Does it?” The inspector was slowly remembering the circumstances.
“A great deal has happened, sir, I can tell you,” continued Mister Walton.
“Has it?”
“And to the Underwoods.”
“Ah, yes.” He recalled it all now. “Captain Underwood’s sea chest.” His interest was sparked now, but Mister Walton was introducing his companions.
“Mr. Pue, this is Sundry Moss, who has been very much responsible for my staying in one piece these past few weeks.”
“Indeed?”
“And let me introduce to you the inaugural members of the Moosepath League!”
“Oh, yes,” said the inspector. “I have read something in the papers . . .”
“Mr. Matthew Ephram, Mr. Christopher Eagleton, and Mr. Joseph Thump. Gentlemen, Mr. Pue, our customs inspector, who more or less saw me off on th
e very start of my recent adventures.”
If the members of the club had shown extraordinary interest in the Custom House (which they had each seen a hundred times before), they were absolutely fascinated to meet the inspector who dwelled therein, the more so since he had played some mysterious part in their chairman’s story. They took turns shaking the inspector’s hand with a collective gravity and curiosity that very nearly made Mr. Pue smile.
“I can’t say how pleased I am,” said Ephram.
“It was very good of you,” said Eagleton.
“We’re quite grateful,” said Thump. Mr. Pue was not used to losing control of a conversation. He hadn’t the slightest idea what these men were talking about, but he was more amused than annoyed. He glanced past Thump at Mister Walton, who was gallantly trying to summon up an explanation.
“There’s weather on its way,” said Mr. Pue, kindly alleviating Mister Walton of his burden.
“Yes,” said Mister Walton, grasping at this straw. “It does feel thundery.”
“Had a cow tethered in the backyard when I was a boy,” said the inspecttor. “A storm came along suddenly and the cow was struck by lightning. Loudest crack I ever heard in my life. Didn’t singe a hair on her hide, but we found her tethered on the other side of the barn, chewing her cud as if she hadn’t been moved. She seemed none the worse for wear, but she gave sour milk for three weeks.” He felt better, having said this.
“Good heavens!” said an astonished Ephram.
Thump gasped and looked about, as if the cow might be on display nearby.
Eagleton had pulled a small book of blank pages from his coat pocket and was furiously writing. “Sour milk!” he said.
“Well,” said Mr. Pue, now that he had the situation in hand. “You gentlemen are on an outing.”
“Our chairman is taking us for a turn about town,” said Ephram.
“We are going to Deering Oaks, in a bit,” informed Eagleton. “Mrs. Roberto is to perform her ascension and parachute drop, if the weather permits.”
“I have read of her in the papers,” said the inspector.
Thump, who had grown defensive on this subject since the incident in Bangor, looked wary.
“Inspector Pue,” said a young man, holding open the door to the Custom House. “Colonel Taverner has wired for information concerning the items recovered from the Castalanara.”
“Yes, Mr. Prie, I’ll be right in. Gentlemen.” The inspector nodded to Mister Walton and his companions.
“You’re acquainted with Colonel Taverner, Mr. Pue?” said Mister Walton.
“I am, sir.”
“Please remember me to him. Sundry and I had a small adventure with the colonel.”
“Did you?” said the inspector, more curious than ever. He must return to work, however, and he opened the door, pausing only to ask, “He didn’t get you to play cribbage with him, did he?”
“Very nearly,” said Mister Walton.
“Oh-ho!” said Mr. Pue, before disappearing into the Custom House. “He’s a demon at the board, Mister Walton. A veritable demon.”
“We are always looking for new members!” shouted Eagleton, when it was too late.
Climbing the stairs to his office, Inspector Pue wished that he had thought to ask after Mister Walton’s valise.
Of the three original club members, only Thump had ever been out onto the Custom House Wharf. (He had told his friends many times of the experience.) The wharves had a singular reputation, even by day; as hotbeds of intrigue, thievery, and pandering; but with Mister Walton leading them they felt stalwart and invulnerable, though they did cast their eyes about in hopes of seeing some sign of dubious activity.
Sundry had never seen so many people, and did his best not to show it. Mister Walton, for his part, beamed—as if the energy and excitement around him were the battery and he the incandescent lamp.
There was much to see: dock workers and sailors, peddlers wandering the crowd, a man selling Italian ices, fancily dressed young men, and elegant women in summer white. Eagleton was nearly lost in the crowd when he stopped to observe Lyman Peabody tie knots with the stumps of his arms, and Ephram was brought to a momentary halt when a woman with unnaturally red cheeks and lips winked in his direction.
“Good heavens!” said Ephram. He held on to his hat, as if it might fall off with his astonishment.
“Ah, here we are,” said Mister Walton happily, when they had come near the end of the pier. It was satisfying to see Horace McQuinn, leaning against his favorite piling, and Maven Flyce, his cowlick standing up from his head as if testing the breeze.
“Well, I never, Hod!” said Maven, his face a picture of surprise and wonder. “It’s that fellow who lost his hat!”
“Yes, and he’s still got it,” said Horace, who looked as if he had expected Mister Walton’s arrival that very instant.
“He’s got people with him!” shouted Maven, as if this were the most incredible thing in the world.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” drawled Horace. He did not offer his hand as Mister Walton approached, but half-smiled as if he knew something amusing and possibly scandalous. “You’re looking fit,” he pronounced as the portly gentleman approached.
“And yourself as well,” said Mister Walton cheerily. There was something in Horace’s manner that made him want to laugh out loud.
“Oh, I’ll make it,” said Horace, which did make Mister Walton laugh. Horace sounded as if he were getting ready to sneeze, but he was only snickering at the pleasing absurdity of life. Maven had no idea what his friend was laughing about and was struck with wonder. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump were as puzzled over their chairman’s humor, and it looked for a moment as if they and Mr. Flyce might be related.
Their wonderment reached greater heights, however, when—before Mister Walton had the opportunity to introduce the club members—Horace leveled upon them his version of a serious stare and declaimed the following couplets:
The Moosepathians could not have been more astonished if Homer himself had walked down from the hazy sky and recited the entire Iliad. Thump took a great breath and his broad chest inflated so that his chin looked in danger of being bumped. Ephram, astounded that the fame of their society had reached so far so quickly, looked away for fear that his deep emotion would betray him. Eagleton spoke the single word “Marvelous” in a breathless whisper as he quickly put Horace’s verse to paper.
Horace appeared slightly suspicious of this last response, but few things troubled him for very long, and he looked out over the harbor, taking a long draft from his pipe.
“Gory, Hod!” said Maven, vastly amazed. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Very nice, Mr. McQuinn,” said Mister Walton.
Horace waved a negligent hand; he considered the moment (as well as the verse) forgotten. “I appreciate your help in tracking down Mr. Benning,” continued Mister Walton.
“I said I owed you one,” reminded Horace. “I liked your telegram.” He reached a tobacco-stained hand into a pocket and pulled from it a wrinkled and dirtied slip of paper. He flattened it out as best he could, peered at it, and chortled. Eagleton drew close enough to read the message.
BANGOR TELEGRAPH COMPANY
JULY 23 AM 9:10
CUSTOM HOUSE WHARF—MIDDAY
MR HORACE MCQUINN
NEED HELP IN LOCATING JOHN BENNING POSSIBLY IN BANGOR. REGULAR CHANNELS UNHELPFUL.
TOBIAS WALTON
“I did think you might be here rather than elsewhere,” said Mister Walton.
“Oh, I was here.”
A low concussion—felt as much as heard—punctuated the hot summer day, and the crowds of people paused in their activity or (as the case may be) their inactivity to take stock of the coming storm. Dark clouds were gathering against the haze, rising like towers above the roof lines to the west. The club members were a little uncertain, standing out on the wharf as the possibility of rain and lightning increased. Mister Walton seemed undisturbed; he was in
troducing them and Sundry to Horace and Maven.
“I’ve read about you,” Horace said to Sundry, with the light of humor sparking his eye.
Another roll of thunder broke over the bustling pier, and the sightseers were hurrying now to their carriages and shelter.
“I fear this does not bode well for parachuting this afternoon,” said Eagleton regretfully.
“Going to see Mrs. Roberto, are you, lads?” asked Horace, and he winked. “I might come with you.” There was a certain light in his eye.
Thump cleared his throat and looked serious.
Horace puffed carelessly at his pipe for a moment before expressing an appreciative sigh. “She is a fine sort of lady, to my mind.”
“Well, Mr. McQuinn,” said Thump, the clouds clearing from his expression, “we would be pleased if you accompanied us.”
“Maven?” asked Horace.
“Good heavens, Hod!” shouted Maven, astonished by his friend’s sudden suggestion of mobility.
Mister Walton seemed reluctant to leave, however. “I fear our adventures are over, Mr. McQuinn,” he said.
“Probably,” said Horace. He was gazing once more in the direction of the harbor.
Puffing under the glooming sky, the toy-like steamer the Proclamation was chugging past the Custom House Wharf.
Horace let out a grunt of amusement, and Sundry followed his gaze. Moving with sudden purpose to the end of the quay, the young man watched as the eccentric vessel steamed in the general direction of the harbor’s mouth. The little boy named Bird stood in the stern, and he seemed to recognize Sundry. A small wave passed between them.
Further down, past the less reputable end of the waterfront, the Proclamation disappeared, and the smoke from its miniature stack dwindled into the approaching clouds.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am not the first to speculate that Edgar Kelleher, the proprietor of the Sleeping Dog, knew the whereabouts of Captain Kidd’s fabled treasure chest; Tobias Walton and John Benning, of course, were speculating sixty years before I was born. Many others have speculated since.