Part 1 (1/2)
THE MYSTERY OF CABIN ISLAND.
FRANKLIN W. DIXON.
CHAPTER I.
Threat on Cabin Island.
”WHAT a reward!” Joe Hardy exclaimed. ”You mean we can stay at Cabin Island over the winter vacation?”
”Right. Starting the day after Christmas,” said Frank. ”The whole place is ours, and Mr Jefferson says he'll throw another mystery our way.”
”About what?”
”Wouldn't say. He'll tell us at his home tomorrow when we get the key.”
The Hardy boys were elated over their good luck. The young detectives recently had broken a car theft ring, and in grat.i.tude for the return of his automobile, Elroy Jefferson, a wealthy resident of Bayport, had made the offer of his private retreat near the entrance to Barmet Bay.
Impulsive, blond-haired Joe snapped his fingers. ”Let's call Chet and Biff and take our ice-yacht over to the island. I'd like to give it a quick preview.”
”Okay. We can meet 'em at our dock.”
Dark-haired Frank, eighteen and a year older than Joe, was just as eager to set foot on Cabin Island and also to skim over the ice, now glossy smooth after a long cold spell.
Joe dashed to the hall telephone and dialled the number of the Morton farmhouse. In a moment he was speaking to Chet Morton, a beefy team-mate on the Bayport High football eleven.
”What's up?” the stout youth asked.
”Get your long johns on,” Joe told him. ”We're going to whip out to Cabin Island on the Seagull. That wind on the bay'll really start your blood circulating!”
Frank and Joe had designed and built the ice-yacht during the previous summer. They had saved their money to buy materials and had worked slowly and carefully on the project. The craft was made so that it could be taken apart and compactly stored in the boathouse where the brothers' motorboat, the Sleuth, also was housed.
”Sounds great, but I don't know.” Chet hesitated wistfully. ”Mom's just mixing a batch of maple fudge.”
”Save it till we get back - think of the appet.i.te you'll work up!” Joe added with a chuckle, ”Think of your waistline, too. We'll meet you at the boathouse in twenty minutes.”
”Well - okay - as long as you don't go poking into any more mysteries.”
”No promises, pal!” Grinning, Joe slammed down the receiver before Chet could object.
Moon-faced Chet Morton, who was much fonder of eating and relaxing than he was of dangerous adventures, was constantly bemoaning the Hardys' habit of becoming involved in crime cases. But the stocky youth was a loyal pal and could always be depended on in a tight spot.
After calling Biff Hooper, who agreed to the trip enthusiastically, Joe dressed warmly and hurried outside. Frank was already backing their convertible out of the garage.
The Hardys drove to the boathouse on Barmet Bay. Chet and Biff were waiting for them. Biff, a muscular youth whose hobby was amateur boxing, was dancing about, attempting to persuade plump Chet to spar with him.
Chet held up his hands to fend off the blows. He grinned as Frank and Joe walked towards them. ”Glad you're here!” he exclaimed. ”This guy is trying to use me for a punching bag!”
”Do you good,” Biff rejoined. ”Get you in shape!”
Frank laughed. ”If you keep this up, Cabin Island won't be big enough for both of you - and us.” He gave them hearty slaps on the back. ”Let's get going!”
Joe opened the doors of the boathouse and led the way inside. The Seagull was chocked on boards which lay over the ice between the cat-walks. Suspended above it in a steel cradle was the, Sleuth.
From a gear shelf the boys took iron-pointed studs and attached them to their boots, then donned crash helmets and goggles. As they took the ice-yacht outside the wind whipped hard at their backs. Joe tilted the brake on the outside of the hull, so that the point dug firmly into the ice.
Ten minutes later the four had fastened the long runner plank crossways under the bow, raised the mast, and set sail. Quickly they climbed into the stern's c.o.c.kpit.
”Strap yourselves in tight,” Frank warned as he took the tiller. ”That wind's strong and the Gull's rarin' to go.
He released the brake and the sleek white craft glided swiftly out into the bay, now solidly frozen except for the channel, which was kept open by the s.h.i.+pping lines and the Coast Guard.
Cold clear air stung the boys' faces and they were showered with ice chips from the bow runner. They waved to friends who were skating near the sh.o.r.e.
”Where is Cabin Island, anyway?” Biff called to the Hardys.
”In a cove off the bay,” Frank shouted, as he guided the Seagull in a swooping half circle around a hole that had been cut in the ice by a fisherman.
”Ever been there before?” Chet asked, straining to get his words out against the cold air that whipped across his face.
Joe shook his head. ”We've never tried to take our motorboat into that cove. It's shallow and you'd rip the hull unless you knew for sure where every rock is. But we shouldn't have any trouble now.”
Presently the ice-yacht raced up the inlet. ”We'll go around for a look-see,” said Frank.
Skilfully he circled the heavily wooded island. The sh.o.r.eline facing the bay dropped off in an icy cliff, but the side opposite the mainland road to Bayport sloped gradually. At the edge of the sh.o.r.e Frank spotted a tall pine.
”Let's land there,” he said.
He put the speeding craft into a wide semicircle opposite the tree. The sails slackened, the ice-yacht slowed down, then drifted straight to the pine, where Frank put on the brake and Joe lashed the craft to the tree.
”Right on the nose,” Bid said admiringly as they clambered ash.o.r.e.
The four started up the hill. Soon they glimpsed the cabin, perched in a clearing on the highest point of the island.
Joe stopped abruptly and pointed to a set of large bootprints in the light snow. ”How can anyone else be here?” he asked. ”There's no other ice-yacht here, and it'd be a long, slippery walk from the mainland.”
Frank shrugged. ”I doubt that the person is still here. It hasn't snowed for a week, so those prints could have been made several days ago.”
”But they only lead upward,” Joe observed. ”There are none going back down the hill.”
”Maybe whoever he was went down another way,” Frank suggested.
The boys resumed their ascent. As they approached the cabin, a broad-shouldered figure in a plaid mackinaw coat appeared from behind a clump of brush and strode towards them.
He was a surly-looking man in his early thirties, who walked with his neck thrust forward. His off-balance, lumbering gait amused Joe, but the man's words were not funny.