“In the name of us all I accept your invitation. We will come, and dance in your drawing-room and dine from your table, as they did in Sir Peter’s day. And now, friends and fellow-citizens, I propose three cheers—three long and rousing cheers—for John Tuckerman!”
The cheers were given—long and rousing enough to suit even Joseph Hastings.
Then the buff-coated man waved his hand. “As your host for the evening, I invite you to go to the drawing-room and dance something a little more modern than the minuet. Miss Sarah Hooper, will you do me the honor?”
Sarah and Mr. Hastings led the way across the hall to the front room, where the rugs had been removed from the polished floor. The music was a piano and violin. And everybody danced, even David, who contrived to jig about not too awkwardly with Milly Hallett.
Then there were songs. Martin Locke sang the ballad he had written, and Tuckerman sang, and Miss Lawson sang several times. Presently Hastings glanced at the clock. “I don’t like to mention it,” said he, “but it’s almost midnight. To the boats, to the boats, and away!”
They all trooped out to the creek, where the flotilla was moored. Ladies in silks and satins and beruffled gentlemen embarked. With cheers from the shore, Joseph Hastings’ fleet steered down the inlet and turned south.
Then the sailboat from Barmouth, with the Halletts and Hoopers, flitted away from the landing-stage on the other side of the island. The boys and Tuckerman went along the shore to their camp.
“Great doings!” said Tom. “But how are we ever going to keep Benjie busy now that the treasure is found?”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Ben retorted. “I’ve got plenty to do. The sea is still full of fish.”
“He’s after a mahogany fish with long, skinny legs,” said David.
“What I want to know,” said Ben, “is whether there ever was a real mahogany man.”
“I think there was,” said Tuckerman. “But he sailed away in the clipper ship. He probably went to the Barbadoes.”
Tom gave a great yawn. “Well,” he said, “Ben can sit up and talk about him as long as he likes; but for me—I’m going to bed. It’s been what I’d call a full day.”
Tuckerman pulled himself up on to the rock where Tom and David and Ben were sitting in the sun. The quiet of early morning was on the water; a few terns were fishing for their breakfast; there was the distant chug-chug of a lobsterman’s motor-boat somewhere to the south; but otherwise the campers had the shore and the bay to themselves. Tuckerman sat down, sticking his long legs out in front of him. “I may not be a duck,” he said, “but I’m certainly getting web-feet. I feel almost as much at home in the water as on dry land.”
