The Secret of Saturday Cove Read online

  Chapter

  3

  PROWLER ON THE DOCK

  THE road south to Saturday Cove winds and wheels and tacks with the shoreline as if it had all the time in the world. But as everyone in town knew, there was a short cut. The old wood road turned off at Goose Creek and struck through the woods to Harbor Road, and thence to town.

  Hot with anger, David took the short cut. Give a girl something special to take care of, he told himself, and what’s the first thing she does? Loses it. But Poke would know what to do, he thought, and he quickened his stride.

  His steps echoed loudly over the planks that bridged the creek. Here in the woods it was very dark. Little of the starlight entered this deep and silent growth. With difficulty, David made his way along the uneven ruts. Low branches slapped against his face and his feet slipped on the mossy stones. I should have brought a flashlight, he thought.

  Suddenly, he stopped to listen. Was someone else walking this way? He paused, hoping for company. But he heard nothing. Only the fifes of the peepers in the bog and the low, slow, steady drumming of bull-frogs.

  From nearby rose the shrill squeal of some small creature, mouse or mole, and after a silence the low, triumphant hooting of the hunter owl. A swift chill raised the hair on the back of David’s neck, and he hurried on.

  When the first of the street lights winked welcome at him from Harbor Road, David glanced back into the darkness. There was, after all, no whisper of footsteps, nobody at all behind him. The woods were silent. With relief David left them behind.

  On Main Street he passed several of the lobstermen whom he saw daily around the docks. They looked unfamiliar dressed in suits instead of the woolen garments and rolled boots of their trade. But their friendly, man-to-man greetings filled David with pleasure. “See you ’round,” they called to him.

  I’m one of them, he thought, with a quick surge of pride.

  He turned in at the Harbor Supply where Poke often kept store for his uncle, Fred Kibbe, who owned it. Vigorously he flung open the screen door.

  “Quiet, please.” Poke’s uncombed head was bent low over a large volume open on the counter. His voice sounded faraway in whatever land his mind was roving.

  David smiled. Poke Stokes’ voice did not match Poke at all. It was round and powerful, while Poke himself resembled a spindle buoy, spare of frame and taller than other boys his age. His thin face was a study of seriousness, and his dark eyes were grave. “Poker Face,” someone in school had dubbed him when he first came to town two years before. And Poke, David was sure, had encouraged the nickname, for he had been christened Elijah and he hated it.

  “Listen to this,” Poke began in what Sally called his “lecture voice.” “It says here that the horseshoe crab is not a crab at all.”

  David grinned, feeling better already. “I’ve stayed awake nights, wondering.”

  “It is first cousin to the scorpion,” Poke informed him soberly. “In the South Sea Islands the natives use its shell as a soup ladle.”

  “What’s the tail used for?”

  Poke’s dark eyes widened. “A spearhead, naturally. In order to fill the soup kettle, you see.”

  David wagged his head. “With you around, I don’t know why I bother to save money for college. Sally says you talk just like a book.”

  Poke’s hungry face lighted into a rare smile. “She does? Sally says that?”

  David nodded, relieved that a group of tourists entered at that moment to buy soft drinks. Sally had said other things, too, about Poke. Jealous things. It was unpleasant, having to hide Sally’s growing jealousy from his best friend. David studied the latest assortment of postcards, wondering why he bothered to hide it at all.

  Then, suddenly, he knew why. Poke lived alone with his uncle, and seldom mentioned his parents who were not living. But whenever he did speak of them his face held the same wistful pleasure as when he was at David’s house talking with Mr. and Mrs. Blake, or teasing Sally in his sober fashion. In a way, Poke had made David’s family his own.

  The screen door shut behind the tourists. David looked up to find Poke’s brown eyes regarding him intently.

  “What’s the trouble, Dave?”

  “It’s troubles, plural,” David shrugged. “Sally. And a lost chart. And an island with a family treasure hidden on it — somewhere in the cove. And a man who wants to buy an island — somewhere in the cove.”

  Poke’s eyes began to gleam with interest. There was nothing he enjoyed so much as working out the answer to a difficult problem. “Let’s go sit down and hear the facts. It’s stuffy in here.”

  On the wharf outside was a line of battered old wicker chairs. Here, during the day, Poke’s Uncle Fred could often be found in company with one or several of his customers. In the afternoon sun these chairs were a favorite gathering place for the men when they came in from hauling.

  The two boys made themselves comfortable outside the Supply windows, where they could keep an eye on the store.

  “Where’s your Uncle Fred?” asked David, propping his feet on a weather-worn pile.

  Poke nodded toward Dennett’s Boat Shed, a neighboring structure which seemed to have grown out of the odds and ends of boats built there in the past. “He’s helping Perce Dennett on the new seiner. I’m supposed to call him if I get stuck. But I never get stuck,” added Poke simply. “Now, tell me all.”

  So David shared with Poke the events of the past two days — his discovery of Jonathan’s treasure chart and Sally’s loss of it, the near accident in the cove because of Roddie McNeill, Roddie’s plans to go lobstering and Mr. McNeill’s intention of buying an island off Saturday Cove, Uncle Charlie’s gift of the gear, and, finally, David’s new ownership of Blake’s Island.

  Poke held up a hand and shook his head happily. “As I see it, you have just four little problems: Blake’s Island, the treasure chart, Sally, and the McNeills.”

  “Little problems!” David scoffed.

  Poke ignored him. “First, that’s great news about Blake’s Island. Earning the tax money should be easy with Uncle Charlie’s extra traps. There’s no problem there. As long as you keep on hauling, that is.”

  “I’ll keep hauling, all right,” David assured him. He hesitated, then he said, “If you’d go partners with me, Poke, it would be a cinch. We could set out a lot more traps. . . .”

  Poke turned his face away from David and gazed across the cove where the tall riding lights of the sailboats were dancing on the tide. “You’re doing all right, Dave. You don’t need a partner.” Then he turned back, changing the subject, “I’d like to have seen that chart. But why worry about losing it since it was inaccurate? Seeing the X is enough. That proves that something was buried somewhere.”

  “But where?” said David hopelessly.

  “Easy. Find out how long Jonathan was gone that night.”

  “How long Jonathan was gone?” Hope and bewilderment mingled in David’s face. But before Poke could explain, the screen door slammed.

  “Customer,” Poke said briefly. He unfolded his long legs and went inside. David followed.

  It was Foggy Dennett, and he grinned when he saw the boys blinking in the bright lights of the store. “You boys workin’ hard out in them rockin’ chairs?” he teased. “Give us a dozen root beers, Poke. It’s hotter than fury in that boat shed.”

  David helped Poke put the cold bottles into a bag for the lobsterman. Much as he liked Foggy, he hoped his visit would be brief. He was impatient to learn what Poke had meant.

  “How is your brother’s seiner coming along?” Poke was asking.

  “Comin’ good. We haul most the day and go to boat-building the rest the time.” Foggy laughed good-humoredly. “Come over and give us a hand next week, Dave. We’ll be doin’ some painting.”

  “Thanks, I’d like to,” David said. He had watched the men the day they laid the keelson, a day when it had been too windy to haul. It was an honor, he felt, to be asked to join them. “I’ll have to come some
evening, though,” he added, “since I haul afternoons.”

  “Come when you can. Only, why don’t you haul mornings like the rest of us, Dave?” Foggy asked curiously. “It’s calmer.”

  “I help with the work around home mornings,” David explained. “We have chickens and a garden, and Dad tutors mornings all summer.”

  “That so?”

  “It’s easier all around if I haul afternoons.”

  “You can’t kid me,” said Foggy with a genial wink at Poke. “Four o’clock’s too early for you.” He slapped extra coins down on the counter. “You boys have a couple drinks on me.”

  Back on the wharf the boys gratefully drank their root beers.

  “What’s all this about how long Jonathan was gone?” David demanded.

  “Once you know how long he was away from Blake’s,” said Poke simply, “you can figure out which island he went to. Starting from Blake’s, you can row out to the other islands. Time yourself.”

  David yelped with joy. “Poke, that’s it! You’ve got it!” Then he grew sober. “Only how can we ever find out a thing like that? It all happened way back during the Revolution.”

  “Mira Piper,” said Poke calmly. “Over at the Historical Society, Mira Piper has all sorts of old books and records. I’ve read some of them. She knows everything there is to know about this town’s past — and present,” he added. “She’ll be glad to help us.”

  “All right. Then say we do find out how long he was gone,” said David, his mind racing ahead to possibilities. “Next, you and I will row off the distances from Blake’s, and somewhere, Poke, we’ll find ourselves a treasure.” David pursed his lips into a lighthearted whistle.

  Poke shook his head. “I shall be honored to dig through the records with you. But count me out of those rosy plans in the dory.”

  “Why not come along?” David asked lightly.

  Poke matched his tone to David’s. “No, thanks,” he said, as lightly. “Now for Problem Number Three. Sally. But Sally is really no problem.”

  “Sally’s trouble,” said David, tolerantly enough.

  “Suppose she does rush into things and make mistakes,” Poke conceded. “She means well, and she’s not afraid like most girls.”

  “I suppose,” said David.

  “According to the law of averages, she can’t help doing some things right. I’d let her in on the treasure hunt. Besides,” Poke glanced at David, “she thinks you’re pretty special, you know.”

  Poke had a wishful look about him as if he were waiting to hear that Sally thought Poke pretty special, too.

  But David said hastily, “Okay. We’ll let Sally tag along.” Then he changed the subject. “What about the McNeills?”

  “If Roddie McNeill makes a good lobsterman, you’ll like him well enough. If not, you won’t have to worry about him. He’ll quit.”

  “Oh, he’ll quit soon enough. But until he does, just let him keep out of my hair.”

  “Maybe you should tell him politely how to behave in a boat,” grinned Poke.

  “I’d be the last one he’d listen to. Dad told me Blake’s was the island Roddie especially wanted his father to buy. Wait till he finds out I’m the one who kept him from getting it. Next time he may not stop at just showing off.”

  Poke whistled. “Worse still, wait till he finds out you’re the new owner. He’ll be so furious he’ll probably make off with your bait barrel.”

  Both boys laughed at the thought of Roddie stealing away with David’s enormous barrel of redfish.

  “Now for the last problem,” said Poke, leaning back in his chair. “So Mr. McNeill wants an island, does he? That’s more difficult. Because, of course, now that he can’t buy Blake’s, he might buy the very island where the treasure is hidden. Tell me, Dave, which islands are for sale?”

  “Well, Blake’s is mine now, and Tub is connected with Blake’s. Big Fox is owned by the government. That leaves Little Fox and Blueberry. Mr. McNeill will probably try to buy one of those when he finds out Blake’s isn’t for sale.”

  “Who owns Little Fox and Blueberry?”

  “Uncle Charlie. And he’d be happy to sell them both — for a good price.”

  “Then the answer is simple,” Poke declared. “Talk Uncle Charlie into holding onto those islands, at least until you learn where Jonathan went that night.”

  “Sounds easy,” David smiled. “Anyway, thanks, Poke. No more problems.”

  “Time will tell,” said Poke in his deep voice.

  The boys fell into a comfortable silence. The rising tide lapped softly against the piles. Now and then faint voices came from Main Street, and across the water from a lighted cabin cruiser drifted the sound of laughter. Under the starry sky the long cove widened into the bay and the bay reached out to the end of the world. It seemed to David that he and his friend were alone on the earth with the summer night and the sea.

  “Poke, tell me something.” In the light from the window David’s blue eyes challenged Poke’s brown ones. “How come you never go out hauling with me? How come no one’s able to get you into a boat?”

  The familiar shadow darkened Poke’s eyes and sharpened his face. For a moment he seemed almost a man, already grown up, with a grim knowledge unknown to his friend. David felt uneasy.

  “Skip it, Dave,” he said quietly.

  “Okay, Poke.” David found his heart pounding with relief. He could ask Fred Kibbe. He could find out easily enough what Poke’s trouble was, if he wanted to. But he knew now that he never would. It was Poke’s affair, and someday Poke would tell him.

  A stealthy movement nearby interrupted David’s thought. While he was wondering what it had been, it was followed by the thud of falling cartons in the shadows beyond the Supply.

  “Over by the gas pumps,” Poke murmured.

  Then they heard the sudden swift pounding of running feet in the solid darkness beyond them. Poke, with David close behind, leaped away from the light of the windows and clattered across the wharf in blind pursuit. David stumbled and Poke paused to help him to his feet.

  “Go on!” cried David.

  “It’s no use,” Poke panted. “He’s in there by the warehouses. We’d never find him now.”

  The lane between the docks stretched emptily toward the water on one side, and on the other entered Main Street in a dark jumble of warehouses and boat sheds.

  Disappointed, they turned back toward the Supply.

  “Now why would anyone want to listen to our corny conversation?” David’s voice was puzzled. “Do you suppose he was waiting to sneak into the Supply?”

  “Or away from it.” Hastily, Poke brushed past him into the store and went at once to the cash register. “Nothing has been touched here,” he reported with relief. Then he glanced toward the front door that opened toward Main Street. When Foggy Dennett had left, he had slammed it shut behind him. Now, it was swinging noiselessly back and forth in the light breeze.

  David followed his gaze. “Somebody’s been in here.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Poke happily. “Anyway, as far as I can see, nothing has been touched.”

  At this point Mr. Kibbe came in, his cheerful face streaked with sawdust. “How did things go, Poke?”

  Briefly, Poke told his uncle of the incident.

  “Well, I didn’t see anyone coming out.” Mr. Kibbe, too, examined the cash drawer. “Nothing’s missing. It must have been some kids running around. You can go home now, Poke. I’ll be along later.”

  The boys left the Supply and turned onto Main Street.

  “Come on home with me and spend the night,” David urged as they approached Poke’s street. “You can call your uncle from the house. Besides, I think maybe you need a bodyguard. You have any enemies?”

  “Not a one. How about you?”

  “Just Sally, and she’ll get over it. Come on, Poke, how about it? It’s pitch dark and I’d worry all the way home.”

  “About me?” Poke asked dryly.

  “No
pe,” David admitted. “About me.”

  “Right. I’ll come.”

  As they turned up Harbor Road David wondered how it would be to live with an uncle who didn’t very much care what you did or where you went. He decided that it wouldn’t be especially good.

  “Tomorrow,” Poke announced, “I’ll sleep and I’ll sleep and I’ll sleep.”

  “You’ll sleep nothing,” laughed David. “You’ll help me feed the chickens. And then, off to the Historical Society.”

  “Mira Piper,” said Poke, “get out your records.”

  “What do you think our chances are?” David asked suddenly. “I mean of finding out how long Jonathan was gone that night.”

  “We’ll soon know,” Poke told him. They passed under the last of the street lights and David smiled. For Poke’s face was flushed with excitement.

  Avoiding the short cut, they walked home along the shore road. The houses gave way to lonely fields, and the fields to misty marshland. Somewhere, deep in the woods, the owl screeched again.

  They walked quite fast and they did not look behind them once.

  Chapter

  4

  SALLY AND POKE

  IN spite of his threat to sleep all day Poke was out of bed with the first savory updraft of bacon and flapjacks.

  “A-hunting we will go,” he rumbled, pulling his clothes over his thin body. “We’ll catch a fox and put him in a box, and then we’ll let him go-ho-ho . . . .” He ran a comb through his dark hair with a fine disregard for direction.

  Sodden with sleep, David watched from the opposite bunk.

  “Awake, Blake,” Poke said dramatically. “The hunt is on!”

  “Wha’ for?” muttered David.

  “Facts,” declared Poke. “Facts, and maybe a fox. We’ll hunt through the records for facts about the British raid on Blake’s. But we’ll also keep an eye out for that fox that spied on us last night.”

  David swung his feet out of bed. By the time he was fully awake and dressed, he had caught Poke’s enthusiasm. This very day they might solve the ancient mystery of the Blake treasure, as well as the new puzzle of who, last night, was spying on them, and why.