The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

lure them back into view.
    “What a wonderful place this would be for my camp!” exclaimed Jim, whose fondest dream was to establish a year-round outdoor school for children who, like himself, had been orphaned.
    Pirate’s Cove was a quiet little bay, surrounded by a broad stretch of sand. Peter said it got its name from the legend that a pirate had once been forced to take refuge there and might have buried his treasure on shore. “Every island I’ve ever heard of has its favorite pirate,” he added with a laugh, “so Cobbett’s is not to be outdone; but, so far, no one has found a thing except Indian arrowheads and stone utensils.”
    “Even Sleepyside has a legend about Captain Kidd,” Trixie said. “He must have been quite a traveler!”
    As they piled out of the car, they saw a huge fire already burning in a shallow pit down on the beach. An old man was adding pieces of driftwood, with the help of Cap and some other boys.
    “Come on, slowpokes!” yelled Cap as he came up to meet them. “Help us bring some big rocks. The fire’s almost ready for them.”
    “Rocks on a fire?” Trixie queried, her brows furrowed in bewilderment.
    “It does sound crazy,” said Peter, “but the idea is to get the rocks as hot as possible and then cover them with wet seaweed.”
    “That would make steam, I gather, but where does the food fit into the picture?” asked Brian.
    “Are you embarking on a scientific investigation of this mysterious process, or are you just making sure you won’t have to eat algae for supper?” quipped Mart.
    “I’m merely taking careful note of the procedure for future reference, dear brother. Here, grab a rock!” Brian tossed a big stone to Mart, who, pretending to be knocked down as he caught it, rolled over and over in the sand.
    Peter, introducing them to Captain Clark, said, “Our island’s most eminent seafarer. Captain Clark’s been sailing since he was a boy of—how old, Captain?”
    “I was twelve when I first went to sea, just sixty years ago, come July,” Captain Clark answered in a booming voice.
    He was a huge man with thick hair, which was almost white, and a heavy beard. Trixie thought, as she looked at him, that he would make a perfect Santa Claus if he were dressed for the part. Instead, he was wearing faded blue denim pants, held up by an intricately woven rope belt, and a red and white striped shirt that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the girth of his chest. His arms were tattooed, from elbows to wrists, with assorted mermaids, ships, and anchors. Very bright blue eyes shone out from under his shaggy brows, and in a stentorian voice he was barking orders to “set to lively and heave up the rocks, else we’ll have no clambake tonight.”
    Once the stones on the fire were hot, they were covered with seaweed. Then Captain Clark led them all up to his truck, which was parked in the shade near the edge of the woods. He pulled back a canvas that covered a great variety of baskets. Some contained clams; some, ears of corn still in their husks; and in still others there were plump chickens wrapped in cheese-cloth. There were lobsters; and there was a basket of potatoes, each of which had been wrapped in aluminum foil. Everything was carried to the fire and laid on top of the seaweed. When the captain had checked to be sure each item was in its proper place, an enormous tarpaulin was carefully spread over the whole pile and weighted down with sand that the boys shoveled on top of it.
    “Now, we’ll let this steam all day, and tonight—” Words failed the captain as he thought of the succulent feast, and so he merely kissed the fingers of his right hand and looked to the heavens, in an elaborate gesture of anticipation.
    Everyone had been so busy there had been little time for talk, but now that the work was done, they went down to the edge of the beach to scoop up water onto their hot faces and to dip their tired feet. After they had cooled off, they sat down in the shade of the trees, and Cap called to the captain, who was still fussing around the clambake to be sure everything was in the proper order, to tell them a story.
    “Why, son, you’ve heard just about every yarn in my book,” Captain Clark replied. “I’d be hard put to it to find another.”
    “You always say that, Captain Clark, but I have yet to see the time when you couldn’t come up with a fine tale,” Cap said as the old man came over to join them.
    The captain sat down