The Secret of Saturday Cove. Barbee Oliver Carleton

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 it.”

      “You like lobster fishing that well, do you?”

      The boy hesitated, then tried to put his thoughts into words. “I love it, Dad. It’s the sea, I guess. It’s — big. It’s never the same for long, but it’s always wonderful, and beautiful, and . . . .” David groped for the right word.

      “Challenging?”

      “That’s it!”

      Mr. Blake nodded. “You’ll find that owning an island will be quite a responsibility. But I don’t believe it will prove too big for you.” He turned from the gratitude in his son’s face and called toward the kitchen. “Ellen! Remind me to see Lawyer Perry tomorrow. We’re making over the deed to Blake’s Island to one David Blake.”

      Mrs. Blake returned with hot coffee. She had a tender smile for her husband. “John, what a lovely way to settle things. I didn’t want to sell Blake’s.”

      “Neither did I,” John Blake declared, and all four laughed with relief.

      “If Mr. McNeill wants an island so bad,” Sally put in ungrammatically, “Uncle Charlie says he’ll sell Little Fox or Blueberry for a wooden nickel.”

      “What makes you think the treasure isn’t on Little Fox or Blueberry?” David asked.

      “Perhaps we can tell something from that old chart you found,” said Mr. Blake. “Let’s have a look at it.”

      “I held it on my lap all the way in,” Sally began. Then she broke off and her eyes went blank.

      “Uh-huh,” said David, exasperated. “You left it in Uncle Charlie’s gear shed.”

      But Sally’s hand had gone to her mouth in horror. “I had it on my lap. I kept it safe on my lap all the way in to the cove.” Stricken, she turned to her brother. “Oh, David,” she wailed. “I never once had it in the shed. When you yelled, ‘Hold on’ when that Roddie McNeill headed into us, it must have been then . . . .”

      David stared at her in disbelief. “Do you mean to say you lost that chart overboard?”

      Sally, unable to answer, bit her lip and nodded.

      David rose to his feet and pushed back his chair roughly. Anger darkened his face, and scorn for Sally tightened his voice. “I turn up the first clue to the treasure that this family’s ever had, and you go lose it overboard like a ninny. It serves me right. That’s what I get for trusting a girl. If it had been Poke, this wouldn’t have happened.”

      A painful lump filled Sally’s throat and the world swam in a sea of shame.

      “I’m off to see Poke,” David told his parents shortly.

      Without looking again at Sally, or seeing the misery in her face, he slammed the door behind him.