He was late. On purpose.
Of course, Ms. Wilton immediately gave him a detention—which was exactly what he wanted.
All during the school day, no matter how many times Lyman came around a corner or popped through a doorway, no matter how many times the man seemed to be watching him and tracking his every move around the old building, Ben wasn’t annoyed at all. And he was looking forward to staying after school.
When the ship’s bell rang for dismissal, Ben found Jill at her locker, and they made plans to meet up at Parson’s Marina on Saturday afternoon. And then he walked down the north stairwell and got to the art room at exactly 2:50, ready to serve his detention. But instead of sitting down at a table to read or do some homework, he walked to the front of the room.
“Hey, Ms. Wilton, anything I can do to help out?”
“Sure, that’d be great. Let’s see—how about hanging up these fourth-grade paintings on that first wire by the wall? The clothespins are in that blue bin. You’ll have to stand on a chair, so be careful. And some of the tempera is still wet.”
Hanging the paintings took about ten minutes, and then Ms. Wilton asked him to wipe down all the tables with a big sponge. As he worked, Ben kept an eye on the clock. If his plan was going to work, the timing had to be perfect.
With four minutes left on his detention, Ben went to work on the bucket of tempera brushes soaking in the big sink. He had to rinse out all the paint, shake off most of the water, smooth the bristles, and then lay each brush flat on a table covered with newspapers.
Ben adjusted the temperature of the water. He gave the hot faucet handle three turns, then did the same to the cold. Then he gave the cold handle four more turns. Then he cranked it some more until it was wide open. The water blasted into the bucket, kicking up a brown foam. Ben kept turning. He used both hands and turned that cold water handle with all his strength. Suddenly the handle spun around, free as a pinwheel, and the water gushed and gushed.
“Um, Ms. Wilton? Something happened to this faucet—I can’t shut off the cold water.”
“Again? Arrgh! I cannot wait to get my new art room!”
She glanced at the clock. “You can leave now, Ben, but go find Mr. Lyman for me, all right? And tell him to hurry!”
“Sure,” said Ben.
Out in the hallway, a flash of panic hit him. This was the part of his scheme that couldn’t be planned. He needed to find a kid who would go and hunt for Lyman and tell him about the newest plumbing disaster in the art room.
The halls were almost empty—slim pickings. Then Ben grinned.
“Hey, Robert!”
Robert Gerritt was rushing from the Annex hallway into the old building, a book in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He didn’t slow down.
“Pratt—what are you doing here? No, let me guess: detention, right? Can’t talk, got to go catch Hinman.”
Ben fell in beside him, trotting to keep up. “Listen, Ms. Wilton needs Lyman in the art room right away—flooded sink. Can you find him and tell him to hurry? As a favor?”
Robert made a grimace. “You crazy? Find him yourself, Pratt. I’ve got stuff to do.”
“I really need you to do this, Robert. Really, a favor. And it’ll make us even. You know, from when I saved your life and everything .”
That stopped Robert, and he wheeled to face Ben, his eyes blazing. “That is low, Pratt, really low. But, you know what? I accept your terms: I go and find Lyman, and then I owe you nothing . Deal?”
Ben smiled and nodded. “Deal.” He put out his hand, and they shook on it.
Robert took off down the hallway again, and outside the janitor’s door he bellowed, “Mr. Lyman?” No answer. He was headed for the south stairwell, but when he reached the corner of the hallway, he looked toward the office and yelled again, “Mr. Lyman?”
There was a faint reply, and Robert rushed through the doorway of the south stairwell. Ben heard him call out, “Big flood, Mr. Lyman, down in the art room. Ms. Wilton wants you to hurry.”
Ben smiled. Perfect—Lyman was on the second or third floor.
Ben went halfway down the hall and ducked into the boys’ room across from the janitor’s workshop. He slipped into the third stall by the wall, closed the door, and waited.
A minute or two later, he heard the keys jangling from Lyman’s belt, then heard the latch and opening door as he went into the workroom.
He could picture Lyman there at the bench, picking up parts, dropping tools into the canvas bag. Soon the workroom door wheezed open again, and he heard the clank of the big rolling bucket against the door frame.
From down the hallway Ms. Wilton called out, “Hurry, please, it’s overflowing!”
Peeking out, he saw Lyman go into the art room, saw the door shut behind him. Ben opened the boys’ room door wider, looking both ways. All clear.
Moving fast, he was out the door, across the hall, and inside the custodian’s room, his heart racing, his palms sweating, his mouth dry as cornflakes. Because now he was going to try to keep that promise he had made to Tom Benton at Mr. Keane’s funeral. If there was an old green tackle box somewhere in this workroom, he had about six minutes to find it, and then get the heck out of there.
But first, Ben trotted to the end of the room and checked the door that opened onto the loading dock. He tested the push bar and made sure it was working. That was his emergency exit.
Under the workbench—that’s where Tom said he might have left his tackle box. Ben groaned as he scanned the bench. It had to be at least twenty feet long, and it was a colossal mess. Racks and bins and all kinds of tools cluttered the top surface, and the wide lower shelf was overflowing with a bewildering assortment of junk, stuff that had been thrown and dropped and stuffed down there year after year, decade after decade. Electric motors, boxes of rusty chain, coffee cans full of nuts and bolts, a crate of electrical fuses, boxes and bins of toilet parts, pipe, window latches, hinges, doorknobs, coils of wire—there was no end to it, and that was just the lower shelf itself. The floor below the shelf was also packed.
Ben shrugged off his backpack and took out his flashlight so he could see back into the shadows. He started at the left end of the bench, working quickly but carefully, scanning the shelf, then the floor below, moving anything that blocked his view, opening the lid of any box or bin large enough to hide a tackle box. His hands were dusty and grimy, and he kept having to brush the spiderwebs off his face and arms.
He worked silently, straining to hear the slightest jangle of Lyman’s keys or the tiniest clank of that rolling bucket. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding, and he kept flicking his tongue against his capped teeth.
After three minutes he was less than halfway along the length of the bench. He wasn’t going to have enough time. Ben stood up and arched his back, thinking . . . and then he froze. Keys! And footsteps, coming fast.
He swooped to his left, grabbed his backpack, and kept going, straight for the wall where the big rolling trash cart was parked. He scooted behind it, dropped flat on the floor, clicked off his flashlight, and held his breath.
With one eye, Ben saw the bottom of the hallway door swing inward, and Lyman’s big booted feet walked right to the workbench. He stood there, muttering. “Valve stems . . . valve stems . . . somewhere, somewhere . . . ,” and Ben heard parts drawers pulled open and slammed shut, five or six of them in quick succession. Then, “There we go!” The feet turned around, took three long steps toward the doorway, and Lyman was gone.
Ben let out a long breath, but he lay still until he no longer heard the jangling keys or the heavy footsteps.
He stood up, feeling shaky but relieved. He also had new information—Lyman had to replace the faucet valve stem, which would have to take him at least another five minutes . . . probably.
Ben flipped on his light again and rushed back into the search, pawing through junk, pushing old paint cans out of the way, determined that if a pale green tackle box was actually there, he was g
oing to find it.
Soon he had worked his way all the way to the right end of the bench. He stood up and turned off his flashlight. His knees hurt almost as much as his arms and neck. He was disappointed, but at least he’d be able to tell Tom Benton he’d made a real effort. Plus he had won a small secret victory over Lyman. Who knows, maybe Tom hadn’t left the tackle box here at all, maybe it was tucked away down in the storage locker at . . .
Ben stopped midthought. At the far right edge of the bench, right up on top, something was sticking out from under a stack of blue shop rags. It was definitely a box—rounded edges, metal, and pale green with rust spots.
Ben pulled off the stack of rags, and there it was! Across the top of the tackle box, nearly worn away by time and hard use, a name had been painted in black letters with a small brush: Tommy Benton.
Ben grabbed it by the handle, and like Tom had said, it felt heavy, maybe five or ten pounds. He hurried over and retrieved his backpack from behind the trash bin, unzipped the biggest pouch, and stuffed the tackle box in—a tight fit, but he managed to get the zippers closed.
Ben made a quick detour to the big sink. Anybody he met would surely notice all the grime on his hands, and that might lead to questions.
As he dried his hands on a rag, he looked at the workbench to make sure it didn’t look any different . . . nope. Still a gigantic mess. He slipped the backpack straps over his shoulders and turned toward the hallway door, then stopped. He trotted to the loading dock entrance. He opened the wide gray door enough to look around—no one nearby. A much safer exit than the hallway.
He stepped out onto the concrete platform, walked to the side, took the four steps down, went across the parking area to the path leading toward School Street, and that was it. Now he was just another kid headed home after school.
Ben started to run, a slow, easy stride. He was still wound up, and it felt good to burn off some of the ner- vous energy. The heavy box banging against his back felt awkward and uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. He had just pulled off a completely successful raid, right under Lyman’s nose! And if he hurried, maybe he could hop on his bike and take the box over to BayHaven right away . . . and hope Tom wasn’t at another funeral. He couldn’t wait to see his face.
Ben jogged across Central Street and then sprinted for home, covering the last half block at a dead run. He veered onto his front walk, took the porch steps three at a time, and pulled to a stop at the door. There was a sudden weight shift on his back, and he jerked to his right just in time to see the tackle box and his social studies book tumble onto the porch floor—all the bouncing around had forced the backpack zippers open. Nelson began barking at him from the backyard.
The tackle box wasn’t damaged, but the lid had popped open halfway—no big deal. Ben stooped down and righted the box, then carefully picked up some rusty fishhooks and a red and white casting spool, and set them on the top tray. A bunch of the large weights had tumbled out too, and he reached for them—then stopped cold. Amid the gray lead sinkers there were two coins, a bright gold one, and another that looked almost black.
He picked up the gold coin and stared at the face of a man with a sloping nose, plump cheeks, and long hair that looked kind of like a ponytail.
There were fancy designs stamped on the flip side, with writing around the edge in capital letters. Then he saw the date and almost dropped the thing—1775!
He picked up the other coin and recognized that one right away—a Massachusetts Pine Tree shilling. It was one of the first silver coins minted in the colonies, something he’d learned about just a month ago. It was tarnished and worn, but the date was clear—1652!
Two coins, both old, both of them certainly valuable—very cool! But . . . how come they were in Tom’s tackle box? Had he left them there? Definitely something to ask him about.
Ben knew his mom wasn’t home yet, but she would be soon. He didn’t want to have to explain any of this, so he quickly dropped everything into the box and began to close the lid—then flipped it open wide. And he stared.
The entire bottom of the tackle box was covered with gold coins, had to be forty or fifty of them, and more shillings, too!
Staring at all that gold and silver, Ben realized something instantly: Tom Benton had tricked him! All that stuff about how he wanted his old tackle box “just to have it”? Right . . . nobody could forget about treasure like this.
For some reason, Tom had left the box hidden at the school, and now he needed it back. So he’d recruited Ben to be his errand boy.
Ben latched the box, then picked it up along with his social studies book. Once inside, he went right to the kitchen and found a memo pad, ignoring Nelson’s whining outside the back door.
Hi, Mom—— got home about 3:15. Riding over to BayHaven Care on High Street, meeting with a retired janitor——part of my extra credit project. Home soon.
Love you, Ben
Less than two minutes later Ben was pedaling south on Central Street. The tackle box was wrapped in a brown paper sack, secured to the rack above his rear wheel with three bungee cords—there weren’t going to be any spills during this trip. He had to get the box over to BayHaven in one piece, and hand it to Tom Benton himself.
And then ask him a couple of questions.
CHAPTER 14
Wages
High Street deserved its name. As Ben banked his bike left off of Central, he had to squeeze both brake handles all the way down the block to the BayHaven Care building. The place had been a hotel back in the 1870s, a three-story gem with tall windows, round turrets, and a wide porch with rocking chairs for the summer visitors. It had always reminded Ben of a castle. The rockers were still there, and half a dozen were being used by some of the current residents.
He locked his bike to a handrail by the front steps, and before unwrapping the bungee cords from the tackle box, he looked out across the bay. The water was silver and shiny blue all the way to the horizon. Tom Benton had told him that this place had a good view of the water, and he’d been right. Ben could have stood there until sunset. But he had business inside.
A young woman with dark hair and a nice smile looked up at him from behind a counter in the foyer. She wasn’t dressed like a nurse, and the place didn’t smell like nurses worked there. It smelled more like the library at school.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Yes, thanks. I’d like to see Tom Benton.”
One eyebrow went up a little, and her smile got a little brighter. “Is he expecting you?”
“No, I just stopped by. And I brought him something .”
The woman rose up slightly in her chair and looked at the package under Ben’s arm.
“You’re not bringing him groceries, are you? Like steaks, or a roasting chicken? Because we have a rule about cooking in the guest rooms, and Tom—Mr. Benton—he has trouble obeying that rule.”
“No, there’s no food. It’s just . . . a storage container, a box.” Ben said that because there might also be a rule about having big rusty fishhooks around the place.
“Good. Now . . . ,” she said, looking down at a log book, “I know that he’s here this afternoon, and he lives in suite 207. You can go ahead up there, and I’ll give him a quick ring to let him know you’re coming. Your name, please?”
“Benjamin Pratt—and if he doesn’t remember my name, say that I’m the kid who got some fruit for him on Monday, okay?”
“Will do. Have a nice visit, and you can use the elevator right behind me, there on the left.”
“Thanks,” said Ben.
The elevator was slow and creaky, loaded with dark walnut woodwork and brass grillwork, beautiful stuff. But by the time the door crept open at the second floor, Ben decided that as much as he loved old stuff, all elevators should be brand-new.
“Hey there, Benjamin Pratt, walk right this way!”
Tom Benton was standing in the doorway of his apartment, one hand gripping his walker, and waving with the other like Ben wa
s a long-lost son.
Ben waved back. “Hey, Tom—it’s great to see you.”
When he reached the door, Tom shook his hand, and then kept hold of it, pulling him inside. “What a good surprise, you showing up like this. Come on over and sit awhile.”
Tom’s living room was bright and clean and uncluttered, not at all the way Ben had imagined a retired janitor’s home would look. A pale gray slip-covered couch sat against one wall, and next to the windows a pair of worn green velvet armchairs faced each other across a low table made of light-colored pine. The floor was polished hardwood, with one blue woven rug in front of the couch, and another larger one beneath the easy chairs and table. Tom quickly navigated his walker to the chair on the right and eased himself into it.
Ben looked out the window before he sat down. “I thought the view from the front porch was good, but this is amazing. What a great place!”
“Thank you very much,” said Tom. “I like it here, I like it a lot.” He nodded at the parcel under Ben’s arm. “I’m thinking you’ve got a bowl of ripe strawberries and a quart of vanilla ice cream in there—am I right?”
“No,” Ben said, “but I think you’re going to like it anyway.”
“So . . . it’s a chocolate Bundt cake?”
“Nope,” said Ben, laughing. “It’s your old tackle box—I found it in the janitor’s workroom, almost right where you said it would be.”
Ben was looking at his face, watching for his reaction.
All he saw was delight—pure delight. Tom’s eyes opened wide.
“Really? You found it? Let me see, let me see!”
Ben pulled the box out of the paper bag, and the old man’s face lit up like a carnival ride.
Ben held on to the box, didn’t make a move to hand it over. Still watching Tom’s face, he said, “I have to tell you the truth—I dropped it on my front porch, and the lid opened up. And some things fell out . . . I’m sorry about that.”