they were memorized.
Their cousin sighed. “Whew, try and get that one to take any responsibility. Well, I can count on him to let Bart know who my visitors are. Incidentally, why don’t you just call me Mary Pete, the way everyone does? All this ‘Cousin Mary Peter’ business makes me want to look around to see who on earth you’re talking to. I was supposed to be a boy named Peter. When I came a girl, my folks stuck on the Mary. Now, if you’ve had enough breakfast, we’ll do that Grand Tour.”
They followed her through the house into the front hallway. Mary Pete opened the wide front door. A soft wind scented with wild roses, rockweed, and spruce needles swept in.
From the center of the hall a staircase as graceful as a harp and as delicate went up to the second story. Halfway up it divided at a landing, then continued up on two sides to become an upstairs hall. The mahogany handrail was dark but all the rest of the woodwork was painted white. It was carved with airy patterns, and scrolls, rosettes, and leaves stood out like frosting on a wedding cake.
“Every bit of this carving was done by hand and with no tool but a jackknife. Our ancestor, the first Jonas in the country, kidnaped the man who did the work in Dublin, Ireland. We don’t know how or why, simply that he got him aboard his vessel, and once here, kept him at it till the very last rosette was done.”
“Oh, but it is beautiful!” Lettie tipped back her head to follow the tracery of scrolls up the side of the stairs.
“Isn’t it?” Mary Pete agreed. “All this new part, as we call the front of the house, has the finest woodwork you can imagine.” Her voice took on a careful dignity that was very different from her usual everyday speech as she described the house. Although she had grown up with its grandeur, the old house still affected her.
“How old is this new part?” asked Jo.
“Couple of centuries, built just after the Revolution. The old ell where your rooms are was once the main house. That goes back to dear knows when. The very first house was a log cabin on the spot. We have always firmly believed that it was the very place where the Pilgrims set up a post to trade with the Indians when they came from Plymouth to this bay of ours. If only we have something definite to prove it, I doubt if Bart or anyone else could tear this place down. Then it would be a national shrine and tourists would come for miles to see the historic spot.”
“Do you suppose it’s too late to find some evidence that the Pilgrims did come here?” asked Jo eagerly.
“Maybe we could. Oh, we’ve got to save this beautiful place!” cried Lettie, forgetting all yesterday’s dark thoughts about it.
“Why don’t we try?” said Jo.
From that moment, without words or a meeting, a society was formed. It began with their exchange of resolute glances.
The Grand Tour continued. Now they had a purpose beyond simple admiration. They looked in each room for a place where evidence of those newly-important Pilgrims might be found. They looked into wide cracks for hidden documents, they touched bits of carving that might hide the spring of a secret drawer or hidey hole. As they moved from sun-flooded parlor to library to upstairs chambers, Lettie always exclaimed, “Oh, this room is even more my favorite!” and the boys wasted not a moment in the search for hiding places.
Finally Mary Pete laughed at their eagerness. “Oh, don’t think I haven’t been looking ever since the time I was knee high to a grasshopper. I’ve always been fascinated by the thought that the Pilgrims and the Indians met here to do trading. Wanting some evidence of it to save the house is just a new version of my old kid excitement. Oh me, oh my, how certain we’ve always been that this was the bartering spot, but to try and prove it is another thing. Of course, we do have proof positive that the Indians used to come here in great numbers. They left their shell heaps behind them to show that they feasted here on clams and oysters.”
“Where are these Indian shell heaps, where?” asked Jo. “Indians are what I go for. Dad and I were going to do some digging on that trip of ours—”
“I’m surprised that your mother never told you about the shell heaps. I guess in the summers she came here she was more interested in hemlines and hair-dos than in Indians,” said Mary Pete.
“Tell us where the shell heaps are,” begged Jo.
Mary Pete screwed up one eye and looked mysterious. “Might be more fun if you discovered them yourself, don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” Jo answered reluctantly, “but I want to get right at it.”
“As for me, I must get at that prescription of Bart’s. After all, I do run a business. But I may put that bit of poison in his order just the same. If you want to keep on exploring, you’ll find the boathouse key hanging under the kitchen shelf. I’ll be right there in the shop next door if you want me. Help yourself to eatables when you’re hungry and tonight we’ll boil some lobsters for supper.”
She was gone before they could answer.
“We were going to tell her first thing about our not staying for more than a week,” said Will.
“We were going to ask which room was the haunted one,” said Lettie.
“Let’s not tell her about leaving until suppertime,” Jo suggested. “Golly Moses, whatever shall we do first now? Hunting for those Indian shell heaps is my first choice.”
“Exploring the boathouse is mine,” said Will.
“Looking over the attic would be mine, but I suppose Mary Pete is right; we ought to leave that for bad weather,” said Lettie.
“Sure,” said Will. “Let’s go to the boathouse. That’s quicker than hunting for shell heaps.”
To his surprise, the others agreed on that. They hurried back to the kitchen and from under the shelf took the key tagged Boathouse. As they ran with it toward the shore, they saw a large black car whirl past the house on its way to the harbor. Lettie shook her fist at the somber vehicle.
“There he goes, the cause of all this trouble. Maybe we ought to start a club and call it the ‘Down-with-Black-Bart-Society.’ ”
“That’s a good hating sort of name,” said Jo. He repeated it as they ran.
Will, in the lead, called back over his shoulder, “Could be in our week here we can do something to stop his old bridge.”
Then they gave in to the pleasure of running pell-mell down the steep slope. The long, feathery grasses, starred with daisies, brushed softly against their bare knees. Ahead lay the boathouse to explore, and, who knew, in it might be the clue they needed to save the old house.
CHAPTER THREE
THEY DISCOVER A WHIRLPOOL
The boathouse padlock was rusty and reluctant to open but finally Will, perhaps because he was the most eager to get inside, was able to turn the key in it. Together he and Jo swung the two wide doors apart.
Lettie, peering over their shoulders, exclaimed, “Whew, I can’t see much but cobwebs and rust.”
Her brother saw other things. “Boats!” he cried. “Look at ’em. I never saw so many kinds all at once!” All thoughts of Black Bart left him. His sole desire was to launch a boat and as quickly as possible. “Grand Banks dories stacked up, a peapod, skiffs, a sailing dinghy,” he recited.
Ever since he was old enough to read he had studied books on boats in the public library. Now here at hand were many of the types he had known only at secondhand. He looked and looked, and was too excited to say more.
Jo and Lettie studied the heaps of fishing and marine gear.