Poison Island   By: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863-1944)

By ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER COUCH (Q).

CONTENTS.

Chapter.

I. HOW I FIRST MET WITH CAPTAIN COFFIN.

II. I AM ENTERED AT COPENHAGEN ACADEMY.

III. A STREET FIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

IV. CAPTAIN COFFIN STUDIES NAVIGATION.

V. THE WHALEBOAT.

VI. MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE CHART.

VII. ENTER THE RETURNED PRISONER.

VIII. THE HUNTED AND THE HUNTER.

IX. CHAOS IN THE CAPTAINS LODGINGS.

X. NEWS.

XI. THE CRIME IN THE SUMMER HOUSE.

XII. THE BLOODSTAIN ON THE STILE.

XIII. CLUES IN A TANGLE.

XIV. HOW I BROKE OUT THE RED ENSIGN.

XV. CAPTAIN BRANSCOME'S CONFESSION THE MAN IN THE LANE.

XVI. CAPTAIN BRANSCOME'S CONFESSION THE FLAG AND THE CASHBOX.

XVII. THE CHART OF MORTALLONE.

XVIII. THE CONTENTS OF THE CORNER CUPBOARD.

XIX. CAPTAIN COFFIN'S LOG.

XX. CAPTAIN COFFIN'S LOG (CONTINUED).

XXI. IN WHICH PLINNY SURPRISES EVERYONE.

XXII. A STRANGE MAN IN THE GARDEN.

XXIII. HOW WE SAILED TO THE ISLAND.

XXIV. WE ANCHOR OFF THE ISLAND.

XXV. I TAKE FRENCH LEAVE ASHORE.

XXVI. THE WOMEN IN THE GRAVEYARD.

XXVII. THE MAN IN BLACK.

XXVIII. THE MASTER OF THE ISLAND.

XXIX. A BOAT ON THE BEACH.

XXX. THE SCREAM ON THE CLIFF.

XXXI. AARON GLASS.

XXXII. WE COME TO DR. BEAUREGARD'S HOUSE.

XXXIII. WE FIND THE TREASURE.

XXXIV. DOCTOR BEAUREGARD.

CHAPTER I.

HOW I FIRST MET WITH CAPTAIN COFFIN.

It was in the dusk of a July evening of the year 1813 (July 27, to be precise) that on my way back from the mail coach office, Falmouth, to Mr. Stimcoe's Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen, No. 7, Delamere Terrace, I first met Captain Coffin as he came, drunk and cursing, up the Market Strand, with a rabble of children at his heels. I have reason to remember the date and hour of this encounter, not only for its remarkable consequences, but because it befell on the very day and within an hour or two of my matriculation at Stimcoe's. That afternoon I had arrived at Falmouth by Royal Mail, in charge of Miss Plinlimmon, my father's housekeeper; and now but ten minutes ago I had seen off that excellent lady and waved farewell to her not without a sinking of the heart on her return journey to Minden Cottage, which was my home.

My name is Harry Brooks, and my age on this remembered evening was fourteen and something over. My father, Major James Brooks, late of the 4th (King's Own) Regiment, had married twice, and at the time of his retirement from active service was for the second time a widower. Blindness contracted by exposure and long marches over the snows of Galicia had put an end to a career by no means undistinguished. In his last fight, at Corunna, he had not only earned a mention in despatches from his brigadier general, Lord William Bentinck, but by his alertness in handling his half regiment at a critical moment, and refusing its right to an outflanking line of French, had been privileged to win almost the last word of praise uttered by his idolized commander. My father heard, and faced about, but his eyes were already failing him; they missed the friendly smile with which Sir John Moore turned, and cantered off along the brigade, to encourage the 50th and 42nd regiments, and to receive, a few minutes later, the fatal cannon shot.