Part 6 (1/2)
”Why have they got it hanging in mid-air?” he wondered.
”For the effect, I guess,” Frank replied. He looked about for a salesclerk. Meantime, Joe tried to lift the wheel from its supporting hooks.
A resounding crack made Frank whirl about, just in time to see the spinning wheel fall to pieces over Joe's head. They landed on the floor with a clatter.
”Leapin' frogs!” Frank exclaimed. ”How'd that happen?”
”I don't know,” Joe said. ”I only touched it.”
The noise brought a woman running from the back of the shop. She was tall, with dark eyes and black hair which was pulled back into a knot. ”Oh, what did you do!” she cried with a p.r.o.nounced French accent.
”Nothing!” Joe protested. ”The old wheel just came apart like matchsticks.”
”We wanted to buy it,” Frank said. ”It must not have been very well made.”
”That piece was valuable!” the woman declared indignantly. ”It was not for sale.” She wrung her hands.
”It was for show only-to set off our beautiful antique display.”
Joe was embarra.s.sed. ”I'm sorry,” he said.
”Maybe we can put it back together again.” He picked up the large wheel and the spindle, still intact.
”Non!” The woman's eyes flashed. ”You do not get away so easily. I am the manageress here. You will have to pay for this wheel.”
Joe groaned. ”Why didn't I keep my hands off it!”
”You will pay!” the woman repeated. She hastened into the back of the shop and returned seconds later with a tall, burly, well-muscled man.
”Marcel,” she said, ”you will know how to handle this.”
”These the kids?” he growled.
”Yes,” the woman replied. ”They refuse to make good for this spinning wheel which they have so carelessly broken.”
Joe opened his mouth to object, but Frank nudged him to silence. The muscular man advanced on them threateningly. In a low voice he rumbled, ”I advise you to give us the money and be on your way!”
CHAPTER VIII.
The Old Marts Warning FRANK, although angry, wished to avoid a fight. He and Joe were on a sleuthing mission-this must come first. ”How much do we owe you?” Frank asked the belligerent man. At the answer, Frank shook his head. ”We don't have enough money, but I'll leave my watch for security.”
Marcel sniffed. ”Let's see it.”
Frank slipped off the handsome stainless-steel timepiece which he had received the Christmas before.
”It's a good Swiss make,” he said.
As Marcel examined the watch, Joe took twenty dollars from his pocket. ”How about two sawbucks and the watch?” he asked. ”That should be enough for a broken old spinning wheel.”
Marcel glanced at the woman and she gave a barely perceptible nod.
”Okay,” he said. ”But don't come around here again breakin' up our antiques.”
”We'll be back,” Frank said, ”with the thirty dollars to redeem my watch.”
The shop manageress grudgingly produced a cardboard carton into which Frank and Joe placed the spinning-wheel parts. Then they put the box in the trunk of their car.
As Frank drove off, he said, ”Something phony going on here. That spinning wheel was only slapped together.”
”Looks like the whole shop might have been set up in an awful hurry,” Joe remarked. ”I'll bet most of the other stuff is junky too.”
”I wonder how Aunt Gertrude's going to like her antique,” Frank said with an ear-to-ear grin.
”I hate to think!” Joe said wryly, taking a road map from the glove compartment.
After studying it for a moment, he announced, ”We're not far from Rockaway now. Boy! It's really a small speck on the map!”
Frank laughed. ”I hope we don't miss the place.”
Presently he drove down a long hill, and the Hardys found themselves in Rockaway. It was nothing more than a small crossroads village on the sh.o.r.e adjacent to a fis.h.i.+ng pier. The brothers soon came to the campsite on the beach and parked. They spotted Biff and Chet sunning themselves before their tent. As the Hardys parked on the shoulder of the road, their friends hurried over.
Frank and Joe got out and looked at Chet's damaged jalopy.
”Wow! That's a bad dent!” Joe said. ”Cadmus Quill didn't pull any punches.”
”You can say that again!” Biff retorted.
”I think he's got it in for all of us!”
”Have you looked for him around here?” Frank asked.
”Look for yourself,” Chet replied with a sweep of his hand. ”There's nothing but a couple of stores and a few shacks.”
True, Rockaway could hardly be called a town. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque and redolent of fish. A weather-beaten frame building stood across the street. Above the door was a large sign: TUTTLE'S GENERAL STORE.
”Let's stock up on grub,” Frank said. He and Joe took rucksacks from their car and the four boys headed for the store.
A venerable man with whiskers was seated behind a counter. He was intently scrutinizing a newspaper.
The old gentleman put aside the newspaper and regarded them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity.
”You're Mr. Tuttle?” Frank ventured.
”Yup. What can I do for you?”
”We'd like to know how far it is to Honeycomb Caves.”