Mrs. Duffit left to unpack her bags, and the three of us clustered around the book. Ethel thumbed through the pages. “I’ll read the even chapters. Kermit, you read the odds.”

“What about me?” I asked.

Kermit ruffled my hair. “You get to say, ‘Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.”

I began, “Fifteen men on the dead man’s—”

“But only on cue,” said Kermit.

“Aw, fiddlerat,” I said.

Taking the book, Ethel moved over to the sofa, and we crowded in beside her. Opening it, she began to read. “‘Chapter One. Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure—’”

As she turned the page, a torn piece of paper fell from the book and fluttered to the floor. Ethel picked it up and examined it.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Ethel said, “It looks like part of an old blueprint or something.”

Looking over her shoulder, we saw a building plan, the kind that architects draw. Kermit said, “Looks like a section of the White House.” Pointing to the plan, he said, “There’s the library, the room we’re in right now. There’s the old Cabinet Room, next door. What’s on the other side of the paper?”

Ethel turned it over. “There are some poems,” she said. “Listen to this:

“And the poem is signed ‘Jura Roams.’”

“Hey,” I said, “that’s the same person whose name is inside the book!”

Kermit said, “There are other poems, too. Here’s one:

“This one is also signed ‘Jura Roams.’”

Who was Jura Roams? Why did he write the poems? Was he still alive? It was a mystery. And I love mysteries almost as much as I love secrets.

Kermit said, “What do these riddles have to do with Treasure Island?”

“All the riddles say something about treasure,” said Ethel. “So maybe this isn’t just a random piece of paper. Maybe it’s a treasure map!”

She turned the paper back over, and we studied the building plan. Was it really a treasure map? Then I realized that something was missing.

“How can it be a treasure map when there’s no ‘X marks the spot’?” I asked. “Treasure maps always have that.”

“The edges are torn,” said Kermit. “Maybe this is only part of the map.”

Ethel’s eyes shone with excitement. “What if the poems aren’t just riddles, but clues? Maybe Jura Roams, or whoever, wanted to leave a record of hidden treasure, but one that can only be found by people smart enough to solve the riddles.”

“Like us!” I said.

Kermit shot me a look. I don’t know why. I’m good at riddles! I decided to demonstrate.

I said, “‘Brothers and sisters have I none, but this man’s father is my father’s son.’ Well, who is it?”

“Archie—”

“It’s me. Get it? I’m my father’s son. Because if I don’t have any brothers and sisters, then ‘this man’s father’ is Pop, and ‘my father’s son’ is me. So there.”

“Did you fall on your head again?” asked Kermit.

“No,” I said. “Not today.”

I don’t know what that had to do with it.

Kermit turned back to Ethel. “You’re saying there might be buried treasure on White House property? Like . . . valuables from George Washington?”

“Exactly,” said Ethel. “Or from Thomas Jefferson.”

“Or Millard Fillmore?” I asked.

Ethel nodded. “Anyone famous in history. Like Lewis and Clark. Or Frederick Douglass.”

“Or Paul Bunyan?” I asked.

“This is great!” said Kermit. “America’s greatest treasures, just waiting for us to find them.”

I gazed around the room. Was Jura Roams out there someplace? He could be close by. Maybe he was a spirit, floating around, watching us, drifting from room to room.

Ethel set the book on the floor, then looked back at the paper and read, “‘Be Resolute of attitude if you intend to find J. H.’s prize.’ So who’s J. H. and what’s his prize?”

Kermit said, “I want to know who Jura Roams is. He wrote the note.”

We didn’t say anything for a minute. We were thinking. It’s hard work. You should try it sometime.

We were still thinking when James came back. He crossed the room to my father’s desk, opened a drawer, and began looking through it. Then he glanced up. “It’s awfully quiet in here.”

I caught Kermit’s eye. “It’s because we’re reading,” he said.

“With the book on the floor?”

Kermit shifted nervously. “Oh, that. Yes. Well. You see, we were just taking a break and having a discussion about what we read.”

“You’re already having a discussion about the book?” asked James. “Without having finished it?

“Oh yes,” said Ethel. “We find it’s far more beneficial to discuss it as we go along.”

“I see. And what discoveries have you made so far?”

Kermit said, “Personally, I’m impressed with the author’s ability to transform the hero into someone so empathetic, vis-á-vis the antagonist who, in contrast, represents man’s inhumanity to man and the inability of a society to nurture itself.”

I whispered to Kermit, “What did you just say?”

He whispered back, “I have absolutely no idea.”

James pulled out a folder, glanced through it, then closed the desk drawer. “You sure you’re not up to something?”

We smiled like little angels. How could anyone doubt us?

James took one last look, then left the room. As soon as he was gone, we turned back to the treasure map.

“Now,” said Ethel, “what was the rest of that first clue?”

Kermit read, “‘Add all the numbers of the latitude, and there the treasure lies.’”

“What’s a latitude?” I asked.

“It’s an imaginary line on the planet that runs parallel to the equator,” said Kermit. “It lets you know your position at all times.”

I grinned at Ethel. “I thought that was an older sister’s job.”

Ignoring me, she pointed to the paper. “Look at that riddle. What do you see?”

“The penmanship is terrible,” said Kermit. “The t’s are barely crossed. The letters aren’t connected. I mean, even Archie has better handwriting.”

Okay, maybe my handwriting isn’t so great. But did they have to talk about me like I wasn’t even there?

I said, “I can hear you, you know. I’m right here.” I planted myself directly in front of Ethel and waved my arms.

She looked right past me.

“I don’t mean the handwriting,” Ethel told Kermit. “I mean the spelling. Look at the word Resolute. Don’t you think it’s odd that it’s capitalized even though it’s not the beginning of a line?”

Kermit shrugged. “Maybe whoever wrote it was just a bad speller.”

“Or,” said Ethel, “maybe it’s the name of someone.”

“Or something,” said Kermit. He stood up and began pacing back and forth excitedly. “What do you know about Pop’s desk? You know, the one in his study.”

I thought of the big wooden desk. All I knew was that it was a good place to hide.

Ethel said, “I think it used to belong to another president. So?”

“So,” said Kermit, “the desk was made from timbers that were salvaged from the ruins of a British ship. The ship was found half a century ago, abandoned in the Arctic Ocean, by an American whaling ship. They rescued it, fixed it, and gave it back to England.”

“Nice of them,” said Ethel.

Kermit continued, “Years later, when the ship was ready to be scrapped, the English took it apart and made a desk out of it. They gave it to President Hayes, and ever since, all the presidents have used it.”

“How do you know this stuff?” I asked.

“Pop told me.”

Ethel said, “That’s interesting, but what’s it got to do with the riddle?”

Kermit beamed. “The name of the British ship was the HMS Resolute.”

As he said the words, the wind blew. The house groaned, and the windows rattled like the bones of a skeleton.

I said, “Anyone else hear that?”

Ignoring me, Ethel looked up at Kermit. “Are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

Ethel jumped to her feet. “So all we need to do is go to the desk, and that should lead us to the treasure.”

Kermit’s grin faded. “We can’t go into Pop’s private office. We might get in trouble.”

“Come on, Kermit, don’t be so timid,” said Ethel. Rising to her full height, she pointed forward, the way my father must have done when he led the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. “The desk!”

I fell in next to her. “The desk!”

Kermit looked back and forth between us, then sighed. “The desk.”

Ethel extended her hand. Kermit put his hand on hers, and I slapped mine on top.

“One for all!” she said.

“All for one!” he said.

I grinned. “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”