The smile left Tom’s face and he looked at Ben for a long moment.
Without a word, he grabbed for his walker and pulled himself to his feet. Turning quickly, he shuffled toward the little galley kitchen. Ben could see a tiny microwave on the counter and a small refrigerator against the wall—no oven.
But Tom wasn’t thinking about refreshments, wasn’t really going to the kitchen at all. He stopped next to a small arched pass-through, where a portable telephone and an answering machine sat on the shelf.
Tom said, “I want you to hear this,” then punched a button on the call recorder.
There was a click, then a pause. “Tom? It’s me. I want you to get your old tackle box. You know where it is. I left something for you. Can’t talk now. Call me at home tomorrow.”
Ben shivered, and the hairs on his arms stood up. It was Mr. Keane talking—a voice from the grave.
Leaning forward, Ben set the tackle box on the low table. He jumped as the machine made a loud beep.
A mechanical voice announced, “May 21 . . . ten thirty-three . . . a.m.”
Tom spoke softly. “Want to listen again?”
Ben shook his head, and Tom moved back to his chair and sat down.
“So . . . that’s what Roger told me. And about an hour later, he died. You can see why I wanted to know why he told me to fetch that box . . . but I knew I couldn’t just waltz into the school and haul it away, even though my name’s painted right on it. And after what you told me about Roger and that new janitor, well, that cinched it. So . . . I kinda set you up to go and get it for me. But I guess you’ve already figured that out.” Tom paused and nodded at the tackle box. “And right now, you know more than I do, because I have no idea in the world what’s in there.”
Ben picked up the shopping bag and ripped it along one edge, then flattened it out on the table. Opening the tackle box, he turned it upside down onto the brown paper. Out tumbled all the hooks, the lead weights, the plastic bobbers, the lures, some tangled nylon line, a handful of rust flakes, and a large mound of gold and silver coins.
“Holy moly!” whispered Tom. “Gold?”
“Coins,” Ben said, “and the dark ones are silver. I only looked at one of each. The gold one was dated 1775, and the silver one was a Pine Tree shilling from 1652. Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Hoo-wee, I should say! Must be a small fortune there, the kinda stuff a coin collector would kill for! But . . . where did Roger get all that?”
Ben shrugged. “At school somewhere, that’s what I decided when I was riding over here—except I thought it was you who’d found them. But after what Mr. Keane said, I think he must have found the coins hidden at school. I mean, he wouldn’t have found them somewhere else and then taken them to the workroom—that makes no sense at all. Plus, the building’s really old, and we know Captain Oakes was definitely into hiding stuff. So Mr. Keane found these, and he wanted to get them away from the school. When he called you he was already at the hospital, and he knew he was probably going to be away on sick leave. So he wanted your help. Probably wanted to share those coins with you. Sounded like you two were close friends.”
Tom nodded slowly. “We really were. But I can’t keep these—I mean, they’re not mine. And they weren’t Roger’s, either. We’ve got to give these coins back.”
“Um . . . ,” Ben said, trying to think calmly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, especially now. It would really get things stirred up.” Ben knew it would do more than that. Every kid, every teacher, every single person at Captain Oakes School would get gold fever—they’d tear the building apart, looking for treasure. And people in the town? They’d come to the school grounds in the middle of the night with picks and shovels, digging for buried loot.
“I really think it’s okay for you to keep the coins—I mean, who would we even give them to—Captain Oakes?”
Tom Benton didn’t smile. He shook his head. “I can’t keep what isn’t mine—I just can’t.”
Thinking fast, Ben said, “But really . . . if this money was at the school, and Captain Oakes left it there where a janitor would find it . . . then it was like he was planning to pay you for all the years you worked for him. And he would have wanted to pay Mr. Keane, too.”
“What’re you talking about? We worked for the Edgeport Board of Education.”
Ben reached into the front pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out the big gold coin. He held it up. “You carried this thing a long time, right?”
“Sure did, twenty-four years.”
“And who was the janitor before you?”
“Jimmy Conklin.”
“And when Jimmy gave you this token, did you promise to follow Captain Oakes’s orders—didn’t you promise you would defend his school for the children of Edgeport?”
Tom lunged forward in his chair and pulled himself to his feet, the knuckles of both his hands bright white as he gripped his walker. He glared down at Ben, eyes bright and fierce. “Absolutely! Jimmy made me swear on my sacred honor.”
Ben was breathing fast now, and what to say next poured into his mind like a flood tide.
“Well, all those years you carried this, Captain Oakes was your boss, and you worked for him!” Ben recalled what Amanda Burgess had said to Jill, and added, “In fact, you and the captain had a contract, and for twenty-four years you held up your end of the deal, every single day. You were the Keeper of the School. And if Captain Oakes were right here, right now, you know what he’d do?” Ben dug his hand into the pile of coins and held up a fistful. “The captain would take all this money, and he’d stuff it into your pockets, and he’d say, ‘Tom Benton, I am so proud of you, and this? This is your wages, and I want to thank you for the fine work you did for me and for all the children at my school—I thank you!’”
Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. He slowly settled back into his chair and turned to look out at the water. He was quiet, and Ben barely dared to breathe.
Still looking out to sea, Tom said, “It’s a nice view here, but it’s nowhere near as nice as the one from the school. The old captain knew what he was doing, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” said Ben, dropping the handful of coins back onto the pile. “I think Captain Oakes knew exactly what he was doing. All we have to do is figure out what that was—and we have to do it soon.”
Tom turned his head and looked at Ben. “Well, we’re under attack, that’s for darn sure, and my oath’s still good. So count me in. Anything I can do, day or night, you call me. And for now, I’ll hang on to the captain’s money, and we’ll see if there’s a way we can use it. How about you count it all up so we’ve got a solid record.”
Ben shook his head. “You said you’ll keep it, and that’s all I need to know.” He stood up, and so did Tom. Ben reached across the table, and they shook hands.
Ben smiled and said, “So, how does it feel to be defending the school again?”
Tom grinned. “It feels like that’s what I’ve been doing my whole life.”
“Me too,” said Ben. “Me too.”
Also by Andrew Clements
Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School
We the Children
A Million Dots
Big Al
Big Al and Shrimpy
Dogku
The Handiest Things in the World
Extra Credit
Frindle
Jake Drake, Bully Buster
Jake Drake, Class Clown
Jake Drake, Know-It-All
Jake Drake, Teacher’s Pet
The Jacket
The Janitor’s Boy
The Landry News
The Last Holiday Concert
Lost and Found
Lunch Money
No Talking
The Report Card
Room One
The School Story
A Week in the Woods
ANDREW CLEMENTS is the author of more than sixty books for children, including the enormously po
pular Frindle; the New York Times bestsellers No Talking and Lunch Money; and the first book in the Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School series, We the Children. On the back flap of that book, Mr. Clements told us about his love of old things—and about some discoveries of his own. He explains, “When my wife and I were remodeling a very old house, I scraped off layer after layer of wallpaper. I felt like an archaeologist, seeing all the different styles through the years. I finally dug my way down to the bare plaster, and I saw pencil marks—a message! ‘Papered by Joe Carver, April 22, 1873.’ I wondered about that workman—what he looked like, if he had a family, and how many years he had been dead and gone. It’s a mystery I never solved. Before I put on the new wallpaper, I pencilled my own message: ‘Papered again in August 1978 by Andrew Clements, happy husband of Rebecca.’ Just a few months later . . .” To be continued . . .
ADAM STOWER has a rich imagination and loves fantasy and adventure stories. He studied illustration at the Norwich School of Art and Design and at the University of Brighton. He currently lives with his daughter in Brighton, England.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2010 by Andrew Clements
Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Adam Stower
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Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
The text for this book is set in Veronan.
The illustrations for this book are rendered in pen and ink.
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4169-3887-3
ISBN 978-1-4424-6212-0 (ebook)
Andrew Clements, Fear Itself
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