Part 7 (1/2)
”Great!” said Joe. ”What's the first stop?”
”Turtle Island.” Frank proposed that they visit the English hermit and have a look at his fort painting.
Chet wanted to go with his friends, but finally decided to work on his painting. The trio were about to separate when they saw Ronnie Rush setting up his easel near the main path.
At once the Bayporters hurried over. Joe asked bluntly, ”Ronnie, we're missing a photostat of an old map. Have you seen it around?”
The student bit his lip. ”Map? Why ask me? If I had, it'd be my business anyway.”
”This one happens to be our business,” Joe retorted. ”You seem to be pretty good at spying. Maybe you saw the person who knocked me out, broke into our luggage, and stole the map.”
Ronnie's face reddened, but he merely bl.u.s.tered, ”I-I didn't see anybody. What's so special about an old map?”
”It's of Fort Senandaga,” Joe said.
Ronnie gave a perceptible start, but at once took up his palette and brush. ”Stop bothering me. I've got to finish my picture.”
”Your prize-winning one?” Chet asked airily.
”A lot you know about art, fatso!” Ronnie muttered.
The three boys turned away. ”I'll show him,” Chet vowed.
Joe grinned. ”The brush is mightier than the sword!”
”Anyhow,” Frank said, ”we got a rise out of Ronnie about the map, though we still can't be sure he took it.”
”Yes,” Joe said, ”but he sure didn't like our questions.”
The Hardys got directions to Turtle Island from Uncle Jim, and permission to use his own canoe, then hurried to the boathouse. They lifted the handsome red wooden craft from its berth into the water. Joe settled himself in the bow, and Frank in the stern, then they paddled off.
Bright white sails were visible downlake as they glided across the sun-speckled water. Here and there a motorboat sped along. The canoe traced a s.h.i.+mmering line over the surface as Frank steered toward a group of small islands a mile out.
”There's Turtle Island,” Joe said presently, spotting a wooded hump of land straight ahead where a cabin of stone and log was partially visible.
Coasting between two large, jutting rocks, Frank steered the canoe onto a sandy strip. Nearby lay a weatherbeaten rowboat. Joe jumped out and pulled in their craft. Suddenly they heard a ferocious barking, then a flurry in the bushes, and a huge German shepherd dog appeared.
”Look out!” Frank cried.
The dog bared his teeth threateningly. Growling, he crouched as if to spring. The Hardys darted backward.
”Basker!” shouted a deep voice. ”Hold, boy!”
The dog subsided instantly as a tall, sunburned man in a brown tweed suit emerged from the brush. Frank and Joe relaxed as he stroked the panting animal. The tall man peered at them beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted them in a British accent.
”h.e.l.lo there!” he said cordially. ”Terribly sorry about Basker-he's not used to seeing many people out here.” He extended his hand. ”Lloyd Everett's my name.”
The boys introduced themselves, thinking Everett unusually well-dressed for a hermit. They told him why they had come. He agreed to let the Hardys inspect his Prisoner-Painter picture and led them toward the cabin.
”Dare say you chaps have had wind of that French gold-chain legend,” he remarked. ”I don't take any stock in it myself-it's false, like most of the past French claims about Fort Royal.”
”Fort Royal?” Joe repeated.
Everett nodded. ”Senandaga is its Indian name, but it's properly called Fort Royal, named by its last holder during the French-English campaigns, the great Lord Craig, my ancestor.”
Remembering the French sculptor's account of the fort, Frank glanced at Joe.
In the simply furnished but comfortable living room, Everett lifted down the painting from its place over the fireplace. Frank took out a pocket magnifying gla.s.s and studied it closely. The view was painted as if from below the ramparts at Crown Lake's edge.
”A fine rendition,” the Englishman remarked. ”I don't generally collect art, but since I'm interested in the historical aspects of Fort Royal, I persuaded Mr. Davenport to sell it to me a few years back.”
While Joe scrutinized the picture, Frank asked if it were true that French soldiers had been the last on the fort's ramparts.
”Nonsense! Sheer nonsense! Who told you that?” Everett demanded.
When Frank mentioned the Millwood sculptor, the hermit clutched his hair.
”Blast it! A Frenchman! What else?” Striding angrily over to a small cork board, he plucked out seven darts. In rapid order he pitched them at the board.
”This Follette told you a pack of lies about Chambord, no doubt,” Everett growled. He did not pause for a response and proceeded to relate how Lord Craig had taken Senandaga. The French had apparently mismanaged their cannon defense and fled before Craig's forces.
When Joe mentioned the story of the English having stolen the chaine d'or, Everett angrily plucked the darts from the board.
”As a descendant of Lord Craig, I shall not tolerate such lies. Here!” He handed the boys a small book.
Its t.i.tle was The True Story of Fort Royal. ”Read this-you may keep it,” he said. ”I wrote the book myself when I first moved here to my island retreat.”
The Hardys thanked him, intrigued by his differing account of the battle. The boys studied the Senandaga painting again. Suddenly Frank noticed a slight irregularity in a corner brush stroke.
”Joe, let me have the magnifier!”
Excited, he held the gla.s.s over the area. But he looked up in disappointment. ”It's just a scratch.”
Nothing else unusual was detected in the painting. The brothers made a note of the location of two soldiers standing below the ramparts. They thanked the Englishman as he walked back with them to the canoe.
”Wish you boys luck, of course,” said Everett. ”Take my advice-the so-called chaine d'or doesn't exist.
Just another of many French exaggerations.” He added that he rarely crossed to the mainland except to buy provisions. He had not left the island in a month.
The Hardys waved as they pushed off. ”Cheerio!” called Everett. ”Be sure to read my book!”
Joe was dejected. ”That painting was another lost hope. I guess all we can do now is search the fort itself for the chain. If there is one!”
”We also have the job of tracking down the thieves and stolen pictures,” Frank said. ”By the way, Everett told us he hadn't been off the island for a month. But his rowboat was wet and muddy-and it hasn't rained for days!”
Joe remembered seeing oars in the boat also. Was the recluse lying? Did he know anything about the Millwood thefts?