David could answer, Uncle Charlie changed the subject. “How’s the swimming, Sally?”
Sally bit her lip. “I’m — I’m taking lessons at the beach, but . . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Without a word, Uncle Charlie reached up to his top shelf. He handed her a dusty bottle. Inside was a tiny full-rigged ship, complete to the last miniature lifeboat and anchor.
“That’s a present ahead of time for learning to swim. You’ll learn soon,” he promised.
Sally’s eyes grew round and slowly filled with happy tears. Unable to speak, she gave the old man a fierce hug.
“Shucks,” said Uncle Charlie. “Let’s git out of here.”
The afternoon air smelled of wild roses growing behind the sheds and of rockweed on the flats.
“Look,” Sally cried softly. “The island has David’s colors.”
Beyond the point lay Blake’s Island, richly banded in color. It was green-tipped with spruces above the broad band of red where the dying sun tinted the ledges. And below at the waterline shone the wet black of rock-weed. David felt a quick rush of pride. Why, in a way, Blake’s Island, owned as it had been by generations of Blakes, was his own.
Uncle Charlie slapped his trousers. “Gitting towards suppertime. Let’s git goin’.”
The ancient car started up with a hoarse roar, and they jounced away from the docks.
“Speaking of islands,” bellowed Uncle Charlie over the racket of the engine, “I hear tell Mr. McNeill wants to buy one off’n the point. I guess all that money of his is burnin’ a hole in his pocket.”
David felt Sally’s elbow dig sharply into his side. Which island contained the old Blake treasure? Suddenly David was impatient to reach home.
They pounded over the bridge at Goose Creek and roared down the narrow road that led north along the shore.
“How many islands your folks own now, David?” bawled Uncle Charlie.
“Just Blake’s. And Tub Island, of course, since it’s joined to Blake’s by a sand bar.”
“That’s a-plenty,” boomed the old man, “taxes bein’ what they are.”
“You own Blueberry Island and Little Fox, too, don’t you?” asked Sally. “I bet you’d never sell them.”
“Sell ’em tomorrow for a wooden nickel,” chuckled Uncle Charlie. “Sick and tired of payin’ the taxes.”
But he doesn’t mean it, David reassured himself. For, taxes or no taxes, Uncle Charlie was too much of a Yankee trader ever to part with anything without what he called “a good dicker.”
They rounded the bend and came to an explosive halt under the elms that sheltered the Blake house.
“Well, it’s most suppertime,” Uncle Charlie announced. And with a quick wave, he bounced off in a cloud of dust.
Supper was creamed salt cod and garden peas, and David ate hungrily, listening to Sally’s high-flown account of the afternoon’s adventures. By the time Mrs. Blake served the rhubarb pie, tart and hot from the oven, Sally had slowed down.
Then David brought up the subject that lay uneasy on his mind. “Dad, have you heard about Mr. McNeill wanting to buy an island?”
Mr. Blake’s years of teaching had given him the look of a patient scholar. He looked especially patient, as he sipped his coffee.
“Well, David,” he began, “like all the Blakes, you hate to see the land go. But it’s bringing a good price now. This is the time to sell. The island costs money each year in taxes, you know.”
Shock, like a cold wave, broke over David. He laid down his fork and stared aghast at his father. “But you’d never sell Blake’s, Dad. Not Blake’s!” Impatiently, he waited for his father’s answer.
“Now, David,” said his mother gently. “It just isn’t sensible to hold onto land that doesn’t bring any income. The old house out there is going to ruin. We simply can’t afford it. But Mr. McNeill will pay us a fair price. He said that of all the islands in Saturday Cove, his son’s first choice is Blake’s.”
“His son! What does his son want with Blake’s?” David broke in. He saw again the contempt on Roddie McNeill’s face as he broke the harbor rules for the fun of it.
“According to his father, the boy likes to do a little shooting and camping,” said Mr. Blake. “And I gather that young McNeill gets pretty much what he wants.”
David was silent. He thought of the house and its great fireplace where he could warm himself during cold hauls. This would be Roddie’s camp. He thought of the island squirrels that by summer’s end would be all but tame — the little shy rabbits that lived in the island woodlot. These would be Roddie’s targets.
“And, too, Blake’s is the best buy for the McNeills,” his father was saying, “since it’s the nearest island to their point.”
David said bitterly, “Their point!”
“The McNeills own it now,” his father reminded him. “Times change, David. We can’t be sentimental about the land.”
Sally had gazed from one of them to the other. Now she burst out, “But what about the Blake treasure? Just when we’ve found our clue, that man can’t go buying up the islands.”
“Eat your pie, Sally,” said her mother. “That treasure isn’t likely to turn up after all this time. And even if it did, it never was money, you know — just household goods that they valued in those days.”
Mechanically, David finished supper and gazed through the window at the tulip tree that grew by the gate. In the century since a Blake sea captain had brought it home and planted it there, it had grown strong and beautiful.
The boy took a deep breath. “As far as the treasure goes, I don’t think it’s on Blake’s, anyway. But John Blake’s home island ought to be worth more to this family than money.”
Mr. Blake raised a quiet brow at his wife, but David missed it. An idea came skyrocketing into his mind, raising with it a high, new hope.
“Dad! Mother!” He faced them earnestly. “It’s been good hauling these last few weeks. I’m putting all I planned to into my college fund, and a little more besides. With my new traps I’ll have enough extra money by the end of August to pay those taxes myself.”
Mrs. Blake rose hastily and murmured something about “seeing to the stove.”
Her husband said nothing for a long minute. Then he cleared his throat and looked up. “And what if your good luck doesn’t hold, David? What then? Supposing you strike a slack season? Or suppose a storm hits you and you lose your gear?”
David thought this over. Then he said quietly, “I’d like to try it, Dad. I think I can do
