HANLEIGH WAS QUITE UNCONSCIOUS THAT HE WAS BEING WATCHED.

THE HARDY BOYS

THE MYSTERY OF

CABIN ISLAND

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

Author of

The Hardy Boys: The Tower Treasure

The Hardy Boys: The Secret of the Caves

The Ted Scott Flying Stories

ILLUSTRATED BY

Walter S. Rogers

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

BOOKS FOR BOYS

By FRANKLIN W. DIXON

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES

THE HARDY BOYS: THE TOWER TREASURE

THE HARDY BOYS: THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

THE HARDY BOYS: THE SECRET OF THE OLD MILL

THE HARDY BOYS: THE MISSING CHUMS

THE HARDY BOYS: HUNTING FOR HIDDEN GOLD

THE HARDY BOYS: THE SHORE ROAD MYSTERY

THE HARDY BOYS: THE SECRET OF THE CAVES

THE HARDY BOYS: THE MYSTERY OF CABIN ISLAND

THE TED SCOTT FLYING STORIES

OVER THE OCEAN TO PARIS

RESCUED IN THE CLOUDS

OVER THE ROCKIES WITH THE AIR MAIL

FIRST STOP HONOLULU

THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST FLYERS

SOUTH OF THE RIO GRANDE

ACROSS THE PACIFIC

THE LONE EAGLE OF THE BORDER

FLYING AGAINST TIME

OVER THE JUNGLE TRAILS

Copyright, 1929, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

————

The Hardy Boys: The Mystery of Cabin Island

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
Ice-Boating on the Bay

Driven by a stiff breeze from the west, a trim little ice-boat went scudding over the frozen surface of Barmet Bay. The winter air was cold and clear, the hills rising from the shores were blanketed in snow, and although a patch of black water away off toward the east gave evidence that King Frost had been balked at the Atlantic, the bay itself was a gleaming sheet of ice.

The long cold snap had caused rejoicing in the hearts of the young folk of Bayport. Although the ice in mid-bay was not solid, along the shore and in the numerous coves of the indented bay it was frozen to a safe depth. The dark figures of skaters sped like swallows in flight on the miniature natural rinks close to shore, and farther out the speeding ice-boats with their billowing sails resembled huge sea gulls as they raced before the wind.

Frank Hardy, a dark, handsome boy of sixteen, was at the tiller of the craft that represented several weeks’ hard work on the part of himself and his brother Joe. Although it was homemade, the ice-boat was staunch and stoutly built and as it sped over the gleaming surface the boys were justifiably proud of their handiwork.

“This is great!” shouted Frank. “Ice-boating beats motor-boating all to pieces.”

Joe, a fair, curly-haired youngster who was a year Frank’s junior, was sitting forward with their chum, Chet Morton.

“I’ll say it is!” he agreed. “I don’t think there’s a faster boat on the bay.”

Chet, plump and good-natured, his round face red with cold and shining like a full moon, kicked up his heels in ecstasy and nearly went overboard as the boat swerved to avoid an ice hummock ahead.

“This is real speed!” he declared, scrambling back to safety. “No traffic cops out here, either.”

“Glad to-morrow is Saturday,” said Frank. “We can spend the whole day out here.”

“And the holidays!” exclaimed Joe. “Don’t forget the Christmas holidays. Only another week.”

“I’m glad you reminded me,” Chet called out. “I had clean forgotten about them.”

The others laughed. In his desk at school, Chet had a small calendar, and as each day passed he carefully stroked out the date and hopefully counted the days that remained before vacation.

“What say we go camping when the holidays come?” he suggested.

“Camping!” Frank exclaimed. “Camping is for summer time.”

“Just as much fun in winter. There are lots of shacks and cottages along shore. We could rent one for a couple of weeks. One with a fireplace and a stove. With lots of firewood and blankets and grub we’d be as comfortable as we could wish—and think of the fun we’d have ice-boating.”

“Say, that’s a mighty good idea,” ventured Joe. “Sometimes you do use your head for something besides putting your hat on it. What do you think, Frank?”

“I think that Chet has had a real idea—for once in his life.”

Chet grinned good-naturedly at this chaff of his comrades.

“Well, if it’s a good idea, let’s carry it through.”

Further discussion of the proposal was interrupted just then by the appearance of two large ice-boats racing out of one of the coves almost even with each other.

“A race!” shouted Frank. “Let’s go.”

He maneuvered the boat around and waited until the other boats were abreast, jockeying to get the full benefit of the wind. Then, when all three boats were on a line, they shot forward.

The boys in the other craft waved to the Hardy boys and shouted. On down the bay, over the smooth surface, sped the trio. The lad at the tiller of the biggest boat, over to the left, became excited and his craft swung around broadside. By the time he got around with the wind again his rivals had forged steadily ahead and he saw that it was almost hopeless to attempt to overtake them.

The remaining craft had an advantage over the Hardy boys’ boat in that it had been constructed by a professional builder in Bayport. Its lines were trim and graceful and it had a wider spread of canvas. But the boy at the tiller found that he could not shake off the homemade boat that scudded persistently alongside.

Frank was taking advantage of every changing gust of wind. The breeze was changing and he tacked to starboard, allowing his rival a momentary burst of speed that left the Hardy boys trailing in the rear.

“Too bad!” muttered Chet. “Can’t beat that boat.”

“Just wait and see,” advised Frank.

The changing breeze filled the sail and again the ice-boat sprang forward. The other craft was slowing down, and the steersman was desperately trying to bring it about with the wind again. But he was too late. The Hardy boys’ boat swept triumphantly across his bow and Chet gave a shout of delight. On down the bay sped the little craft and by the time the other boat’s sails were billowing again the lads were far in the lead. Looking back, they saw the beaten rival slowly turning about into the wind, heading back up the bay.

“That’s real seamanship!” declared Joe.

“Oh, well, we have a good boat,” returned Frank, refusing to claim any credit for the victory. “We were lucky the wind changed.”

Ahead of them loomed a high, gloomy cliff, rising sheer from the ice. Beyond that, they knew, was one of the largest coves on Barmet Bay, known as Cabin Cove.

“Let’s go on and take a look at Cabin Island,” suggested Chet. “Seeing we’re so close to the place we might as well pay it a visit.”

“Sure thing,” approved the others.

Cabin Island, in Cabin Cove, was a lonely spot, even more desolate now that the bay was locked in ice. It was seldom visited, even in the summer months, because it was an inhospitable place, with high cliffs rising almost directly from the water, with only a few landing places that were difficult of access.

The Hardy boys had often wanted to visit the island in the summer, but their motorboat, the Sleuth, was too large to be maneuvered among the rocks that skirted the lonely shore, without running danger of being dashed to pieces by the angry waves.

“We won’t have any trouble making a landing now,” said Frank. “We can bring the ice-boat right up to the base of the cliffs until we find a place where it is possible to climb to the top.”

The island was heavily covered with timber, and at one time it had been inhabited, for a big log cabin had been constructed on an eminence overlooking the bay. From this cabin, the island had derived its name. The cabin was deserted now, and to the boys’ knowledge no one had lived there for the past five years, either in summer or winter.

The ice-boat swung around the point, the cliffs lowering bleakly overhead, and they sped down into the great cove.

Cabin Island, dark and austere, lay before them, the ice gleaming on every side. The evergreen timber rose above the white snow, and at the southern end of the island the cabin could be plainly seen.

Within a few minutes, the ice-boat was speeding along in the lee of the island, close to the steep walls of rock. The boys eagerly scanned the cliffs in the hope of finding a landing place.

At last Frank gave a murmur of satisfaction and steered the craft toward a break in the cliff. Here there was a small ravine and against the background of snow the boys distinctly saw a path that wound up the sloping side of the ravine toward the cabin above.

“Thought there’d be a landing place here somewhere,” he said.

“Queer,” said Chet, eyeing the path. “Must be some one on that island.”

“There are footprints, sure enough.”

“It snowed three days ago. There must have been some one here since then,” Joe observed.

“Probably some other chaps came out here in an ice-boat,” said Frank carelessly. “If that’s the case, they’ve been kind enough to break trail for us.”

He guided the ice-boat into the little bay and its sail flapped idly as it came to a stop just a few feet from shore. The boys hopped out on to the ice and stretched their legs, then anchored the craft and made it secure. The little bay was sheltered from the wind. It was a natural harbor, and evidently the owner of the island had built his cabin where he did because of this ideal landing place that in summer was almost hidden from view by the overhanging trees.

Frank was examining the footprints leading toward the upper level.

“Only one set of footprints here,” he said. “They seem quite fresh, too. I wonder if any one is up there now.”

“Must be,” returned Joe. “The footprints lead up the hill, but there is none leading back.”

“Perhaps he went down the other side,” Chet suggested. “Well, we can’t let that scare us away. Let’s go.”

With Frank in the lead, the boys began to ascend the winding path, following those mysterious footprints in the snow.

They were about halfway up the side of the ravine when suddenly a dark figure appeared from behind a clump of trees a few yards ahead. A surly-looking man, black-browed and swarthy, advanced toward them, striding through the snow.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rasping voice.

“Just thought we’d explore the island, sir,” answered Frank. “We hope you don’t mind.”

“I do mind!” retorted the stranger curtly. “Get away from here and stay away. I don’t allow visitors.”

“But——”

“No argument!” he snapped. “You’re trespassing here. Get away, now. Make tracks.”

“We won’t damage anything,” piped Chet.

“Do you hear me? Get off this island at once! Clear out, and be quick about it!”

The stranger glared at them angrily. Frank saw that nothing would be gained by arguing the matter. He shrugged.

“All right, sir.”

“Thanks for the hospitality!” sang out Chet, as the boys turned about and retraced their steps down the path.

CHAPTER II
Heading for Trouble

“Something queer about this business,” said Frank Hardy, as the three boys went back toward their ice-boat. “I don’t see why he should be so anxious to keep visitors off his old island. We weren’t doing any harm.”

“He’s a crab!” declared Chet. “Who is he, anyway?”

“I think his name is Jefferson,” said Joe. “Elroy Jefferson. I’ve heard that he owns Cabin Island.”

“Jefferson,” said Frank reflectively. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Of course you have. He’s an antique dealer. Sort of queer old codger, from all accounts. We saved his automobile for him, don’t you remember?”

“Oh, now I know where I heard his name!” exclaimed Frank. “You’re right. He lives in a big house up the Shore Road.”

“Sure. His car was one of those stolen when the auto thieves were busy on the Shore Road. We found it in the cave when we rounded up the gang.”

The incident to which Joe referred was the climax of one of the numerous mysteries solved by the Hardy boys. The brothers, who were introduced to our readers in the first volume of this series, entitled: “The Hardy Boys: The Tower Treasure,” were the sons of a celebrated American detective, Fenton Hardy by name, and had already won considerable fame for themselves in and about their home city of Bayport by reason of their success in solving a number of mysteries that had baffled the local police.

Frank and Joe, although still in high school, were anxious to follow in their father’s footsteps. Fenton Hardy was a hero to them. For many years he had been connected with the detective bureau of the New York police department, where he had earned such distinction that he was able to resign and move to Bayport, there to accept cases as a private investigator. Internationally famous, he was frequently called in to solve mysteries that had been given up by the police in all parts of the country, as well as accepting other assignments in which police action was not desired.

Already the two boys showed that they had inherited much of their father’s ability. They were sharp, observant and intelligent enough to draw shrewd deductions from small clues.

In the volume immediately preceding the present story, “The Hardy Boys: The Secret of the Caves,” the lads tackled a mystery that even Fenton Hardy had not been able to solve, the disappearance of an aged college professor, and had eventually found the old man after a series of thrilling adventures on a lonely part of the Atlantic coast.

“So that’s Elroy Jefferson, is it?” said Frank. “Pleasant sort of customer, isn’t he? He didn’t treat us very well, considering we saved his automobile for him.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know you,” suggested Chet.

“That’s possible. I remember now. He was in Europe at the time of the car-stealing affair.”

“Perhaps this chap isn’t Mr. Jefferson at all,” put in Joe. “He may have sold the island.”

“Well, whoever he is, I don’t think much of him. What did he think we were going to do? Burn down his cabin?”

Chet laughed. “I guess he doesn’t want his nice, pretty island all tracked up. Well, I suppose there’s nothing for us but to go home. It’s getting late, anyway.”

The boys scrambled into the ice-boat. Before they started off, however, Frank looked back up against the lonely cabin, silhouetted at the top of the cliff against the dreary winter sky. The man who had driven them away was nowhere in sight.

“I can’t get it out of my head that there’s something strange about this business,” he said. “I’d like to know why he was so anxious to chase us away.”

“Aw, you see a mystery in everything,” scoffed Chet. “He’s just a cranky old chap who likes to show his authority. I’ll bet he even tries to boss the rabbits and the snowbirds on the island. Let’s go!”

The ice-boat moved slowly away from Cabin Island and the boys soon forgot their disappointment in the exhilaration of swift flight across the ice.

They swept out of the cove, around the rocky point, out into the bay. Far ahead of them lay Bayport, its towers and spires shining in the sunset. It was getting colder, and the wind stung their faces to a rosy glow.

“If we go camping in the holidays!” shouted Frank, “I guess Cabin Island is off our list, at any rate.”

“It would be a mighty fine place to camp,” said Joe regretfully. “It’s too bad Mr. Jefferson is such a crank. A good-hearted chap would let us live in his old cabin during the holidays.”

“Well,” remarked Chet, “this particular chap isn’t at all good-hearted, so I suppose we’ll just have to hunt up another camping spot.”

The boys were silent. Cabin Island would have been an ideal place for their outing. It would be difficult to find another cabin as well constructed and so near Bayport.

Suddenly, Chet pointed ahead.

“Look at that ice-boat!” he exclaimed. “Must be a crazy man steering it.”

Away in the distance they could see a large craft, twisting and turning in an erratic fashion. It would speed in a straight course for a hundred yards or so, then it would commence to zigzag crazily, at times veering over until the sail was almost level with the ice.

“He’ll break his mast or his rudder,” opined Frank. “Then he won’t be so smart, when he finds himself stranded about three miles from town. A chap who will handle a boat like that doesn’t deserve to have one.”

However, the other craft seemed to be standing up under the senseless strain being imposed on it. It was a larger boat than that of the Hardy boys, and it was able to withstand mishandling that would have wrecked a smaller craft.

The boys did not alter their course, for they were some distance to leeward and under ordinary circumstances would not pass within shouting distance of the big boat. However, as they sped on, Frank saw that the other craft had ceased zigzagging and was now bearing toward them. Its huge sail was full and it was gathering speed.

“That big boat can certainly travel!” exclaimed Chet.

“I’ll say it can. If he doesn’t change his course that chap will travel right into us.”

As the big boat drew nearer the boys saw that there were two men on board. Frank mentally checked over the various ice-boats he had seen on the bay and thought he recognized the approaching boat as belonging to Tad Carson and Ike Nash, two young men of unsavory repute in the city. They were loud-mouthed, insolent fellows who had never been known to do a day’s work, and it was a mystery how they had managed to raise sufficient money to buy the ice-boat in which they were now amusing themselves.

“He’d better change his course,” said Joe nervously. “He’s heading right toward us.”

“Not if I know it,” said Frank. “If he won’t change, then I will.”

He bore down on the tiller and their ice-boat swung around out of the path of the other.

Then, to their amazement and consternation, the lads saw that the big craft had also swung around and that it was still hurtling forward at terrific speed.

“They’re going to run us down!” shouted Chet, in alarm.

The big boat was only fifty yards away. The lads could see Ike Nash at the tiller, his mouth open in an ugly grin.

In another moment, the big craft would crash broadside into the small boat, and so great was its speed that the Hardy boys’ boat would certainly be wrecked beyond repair and it was possible that the boys themselves might be seriously injured.

Then they saw Ike bear down on the tiller again, evidently trying to avert the catastrophe at the last minute. It had been a crude practical joke on his part, to frighten the lads.

Then he looked up, his face frightened, and shouted.

The tiller had not responded!

The big ice-boat did not change course. It was booming down on the smaller craft at terrific speed!

CHAPTER III
A Strange Note

Had it not been for Frank Hardy’s coolness and presence of mind, there would have been a disastrous collision.

His quick hand at the tiller averted the crash by a hairbreadth. How he did it, he could not later explain. At the time, Chet and Joe could see no possible chance of escape. But, just as the collision seemed imminent, their craft veered off to one side and the other boat went booming past at terrific speed, the two ice-boats so close together that their sides almost touched.

It was a narrow escape. Frank had swung the nose of his boat around just in the nick of time.

He brought the craft around in a circle, for the boys were in no mind to let the affront pass. Then they saw that the other boat had overturned. The boy at the helm, frightened by the imminence of peril, had lost his nerve, had swung the boat too far over, and it had gone on its side. The mast had snapped. The boat was wrecked.

The Hardy boys and Chet Morton went back to the scene. Tad Carson and Ike Nash were just crawling out from under their capsized craft.

“What’s the big idea?” roared Nash, in an ugly humor. “Now see what you’ve done. You might have killed us!”

“Take some of that for yourself,” rejoined Frank, walking over. “It was your own fault. You tried to run us down.”

“Run you down! I like that! You head straight for us and then say we tried to run you down. You’ve smashed our boat, so you have, and you’ll pay for it.”

“Try to collect!” advised Chet airily. “By rights, we ought to have you up in court. Trying to be smart, weren’t you?”

Both the other boys were bigger than Chet, but this never bothered that boy—as long as some one was with him.

“Absolutely deliberate, wasn’t it, Tad?”

“You bet!” said Carson. “The young brats drove right at us. If they had hit us we might have been killed.”

Their cool effrontery amazed the Hardy boys.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” snapped Joe. “Trying to lay the blame on us. It serves you right to have your boat smashed up. You would have smashed ours if we hadn’t been lucky. After this, watch where you’re going.”

“Look here!” said Ike Nash truculently, doubling his fists and stepping forward. “I won’t stand talk like that from you.”

“No?” said Frank, edging over to Joe’s side, and doubling his fists as well. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Yes,” added Chet, trying to achieve a threatening expression, “what are you going to do about it?”

Ike and Tad surveyed the three lads who stood facing them, with fists ready. Like most bullies, they were cowards, and now that their bluff had been called they were not anxious to risk a battle that might prove the worse for them.

“You’ll find out what we’ll do about it,” growled Ike. “As for me, I wouldn’t waste my time thrashing you, although you need it mighty bad——”

“Sure,” agreed Tad Carson quickly. “I wouldn’t lower myself to lick you. Just a pack of babies, that’s all. You oughtn’t to be allowed out on the bay when you can’t handle a boat.”

“It’s your boat that got smashed,” Chet reminded them cheerfully. “How was that for handling?”

“Come on,” said Ike. “Don’t talk to the brats, Tad. What’s the use wasting time on them?”

“That’s what I say,” agreed his companion, and they returned loftily to their smashed boat, trying to conceal their chagrin.

“Want a ride back?” chirped Chet.

“You clear out of here, or we’ll smash your boat too.”

“Let’s go,” advised Frank. “They’re in a bad humor. It wasn’t our fault. I think we were lucky to escape so easily. If our boat had been smashed they would have just laughed at us.”

The lads scrambled back into their ice-boat and in a few minutes they were sailing up the bay again, past the wreckage of the other craft. Ike Nash and Tad Carson were clumsily trying to put it to rights.

“That’ll teach ’em to go around scaring people,” observed Chet Morton virtuously, as they flashed by. He waved ironically at the marooned sportsmen, and was rewarded only by a shake of the fist from Ike Nash.

In a short time, the lads were back at Bayport, and, having placed the ice-boat in its berth, they walked up the snow-covered street toward the Hardy home. This was a fine brick residence on High Street, with a garage where the boys kept their motorcycles and the decrepit auto they had bought with their savings and which had been of so much value in solving the Shore Road mystery of the stolen automobiles, as recounted in the volume of that title. At the rear was a barn, which had been fitted up as a gymnasium, where the Hardy boys and their chums spent many happy hours on rainy and stormy Saturdays.

When the Hardy boys said good-bye to Chet Morton and entered the house they were greeted by Aunt Gertrude, a peppery, dictatorial lady of certain temper and uncertain years, who was again with the Hardys for a visit of indeterminate length. Aunt Gertrude could never reconcile herself to the idea that the boys were growing up and persisted in treating them as though they were still infants, or, as Joe expressed it, “as if we were half-witted.”

“Go back and stamp the snow off your shoes!” she ordered, as they tramped into the hall. “It’s a disgrace, the way you two boys track up this house just as soon as I’ve got everything all cleaned up.”

There was very little snow on the boys’ boots, and Aunt Gertrude never, under any circumstances, assisted in the house cleaning, but it was her nature to give orders. The boys knew better than to disobey, so they meekly returned to the vestibule and stamped their shoes, then came back into the hall.

“That’s better,” said their aunt grudgingly. “Now go into the library. Your father is waiting for you. You should have been home hours ago. I declare I don’t know where you spend your time. Just gallivanting around when you should be at home doing your studies.”

The boys went on into the library. The door was open and when they entered they found their father, Fenton Hardy, the noted detective, perusing an imposing grist of legal documents at his desk. He glanced up and smiled at them.

“Hello, sons! Been out on the bay?”

“Yes, sir,” returned Frank. “Out in the ice-boat.”

“Good, healthy sport. Have a good time?”

“Oh, yes. We went away down as far as Cabin Island.”

“Cabin Island, eh? That’s strange. I’ve had Cabin Island in my mind for the past hour or more. There has been a message here, waiting for you.”

“A message?”

Mr. Hardy reached into his desk and produced an envelope.

“A man called here this afternoon and left this message for you boys.”

“But why should it remind you of Cabin Island, Dad?” asked Joe.

“Because the man who left the message here was Elroy Jefferson’s chauffeur.”

“Elroy Jefferson!” exclaimed Frank. “Why, he is the man who owns Cabin Island.”

“So I believe. Well, there’s the note, at any rate. Better read it and find out what he has to say.”

Frank tore open the envelope and removed a folded slip of paper. There were a few type-written words. He and Joe read them with growing amazement.

“Well, what do you know about that?” exclaimed Frank finally.

“I wonder what’s the idea?” said his brother.

Frank handed the note over to their father.

“What do you make of it, Dad?”

Fenton Hardy read the note. He looked puzzled. Then he handed it back to the boys.

“I can’t say, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s a strange note. Still, I suppose you had better do as he asks, and then you’ll know more about it later.”

“We certainly will!” said Frank.

Then he read the note over again.

CHAPTER IV
Holiday Plans

The note which puzzled the Hardy boys was as follows:

“Messrs. Frank and Joseph Hardy,

Bayport.

“Dear Sirs:

“If it is convenient for you to call upon me at my residence to-morrow I should like to talk to you about a matter that has been in my mind since my return from Europe. If you will be good enough to call early to-morrow afternoon I will explain further.

Yours very truly,

Elroy Jefferson.”

“A matter that has been in his mind ever since his return from Europe,” said Frank. “I wonder what it can be.”

“Well, we recovered his automobile for him from the Shore Road thieves,” ventured Joe.

“What has that to do with it?” asked Fenton Hardy, smiling.

“Mr. Jefferson wasn’t in Bayport at the time. You remember, we got a big reward for clearing up that case and the owners of the stolen cars contributed to it. But as Mr. Jefferson was away, he wasn’t in on that. Perhaps he wants to add to it,” said Joe hopefully.

Fenton Hardy shook his head in amusement.

“I thought you did very well. Surely you aren’t looking for more money.”

“Oh, we’re not looking for more. Still, if Mr. Jefferson feels hurt because he couldn’t show his appreciation, why, we wouldn’t turn down any offer,” and Joe grinned.

“I don’t know Mr. Jefferson,” said Frank. “What’s he like, Dad?”

“He is an antique dealer,” returned Mr. Hardy. “He is quite well known in his own field. He travels in Europe a great deal, buying antiques. Of late years he has kept very much to himself. I believe he has made a great deal of money, and in his time he was one of the leading experts in antique furniture in the country.”

“Isn’t he still an expert?”

“Oh, yes. But he isn’t as prominent as he once was. Something happened to him a few years ago that made the old fellow very queer. I don’t remember exactly what it was; but since that time he has been something of a character.”

“Sounds interesting,” commented Joe. “Well, I guess we’d better go and see him to-morrow, hadn’t we, Frank?”

“Sure thing. We can ask him why he keeps such a tough-looking watchman on Cabin Island.”

“A watchman?” exclaimed Fenton Hardy.

“Yes. We landed there this afternoon and a man told us to clear out. Said we were trespassing.”

“That doesn’t sound like Elroy Jefferson,” said Mr. Hardy. “I’m sure he wouldn’t give any such orders. As far as I remember him, he has always been a rather kindly old chap.”

“We thought perhaps he had sold the island.”

“I haven’t heard of its changing hands. I can’t imagine why he would have a watchman there in the winter, anyway. Ask him about it when you see him to-morrow.”

The next morning, although the boys had discussed the note from Mr. Jefferson many times, they had still failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to the reason why he should want them to call on him; so they were awaiting the interview with curiosity and expectation.

That morning, while on an errand downtown for their mother, the brothers met Callie Shaw and Iola Morton. Both girls attended the Bayport high school and were in the same grade as the Hardy boys. Callie, a brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, was Frank’s particular favorite among the girls at school, while Iola, plump and dark, Chet Morton’s sister, was the only girl who had ever won even a reluctant admiration from the bashful Joe, who had even gone so far as to admit that she was “all right—as a girl.” Which, from Joe, was high praise.

“Well, it’s good to see you alive!” exclaimed Callie. “From what we’ve been hearing, it’s lucky you’re able to come downtown at all to-day.”

“Yes,” chimed in Iola, “Chet has been telling me all about it. I should think you’d have been patting yourself on the back ever since.”

The boys looked at one another blankly.

“What yarn has Chet been springing now?” asked Frank.

“No yarn. He was telling us how narrowly you all escaped being killed out on the bay yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, that!” laughed Frank. “It wasn’t so bad. We might have got bumped about a bit, but we were lucky.”

“That’s letting you tell it!” exclaimed Iola. “Chet says that if it hadn’t been for the way you handled that ice-boat, Frank, there would have been a terrible smash-up.”

“Oh, Chet usually exaggerates,” said Frank uncomfortably.

“You’re too modest,” put in Callie quickly. “He told us all about it. I think you deserve a lot of credit, Frank.”

“You bet he does!” cried Joe warmly, oblivious of his brother’s embarrassment. “He saved our lives.”

“And as for those other boys!” continued Callie. “If that Ike Nash or Tad Carson ever dare speak to me again I’ll go past them with my nose in the air. Won’t you, Iola?”

“I certainly will. And I’m going to tell the other girls about it, too. I think it was mean of them, and I’m glad their old boat got smashed.”

“Oh, I guess they’ve suffered enough,” said Frank. “No use rubbing it in.”

“If they had smashed your boat they would have told the story all over Bayport. I’m certainly glad it turned out the way it did,” said Callie.

“Drat that Chet,” muttered Frank, after the girls had gone on down the street. “Why can’t he keep quiet? He’ll be making me out a hero if he keeps up. I didn’t want anything said about that affair.”

“Well, only two girls know about it now,” returned Joe, comfortingly.

“Only two girls!” snorted Frank. “He might as well have published it in the newspaper.”

Nevertheless he was inwardly pleased by Callie’s evident concern over his narrow escape and by her admiration of the way he had acquitted himself in the emergency.

That afternoon, immediately after lunch, the Hardy boys set out for the handsome Jefferson home on the Shore Road. The place was not far away, and as the snow was too deep to permit of using their motorcycles, the boys went on foot. Before they had come within sight of the place they met a chum, Biff Hooper, who frequently accompanied the Hardy boys on their adventures.

They found Biff, who was pugilistically inclined, dancing about in the snow, making wild dashes and lunges at an imaginary sparring partner. He did not see Frank and Joe at first and when they came up to him he had evidently just put the finishing touches to the invisible antagonist, for he was breathing heavily and, as he looked down into the snow, he was counting! “Seven—eight—nine—ten—Out!”

“Hurrah for the new champion!” shouted Joe. “Did you knock him out, Biff?”

Biff swung around quickly and looked very foolish.

“Just doing a little shadow-boxing,” he explained, very red in the face. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Practising to clean up on the championship?” asked Frank pleasantly. “Whoever he was, you knocked him right off the map.”

“Say,” said Biff, anxious to change the subject, “I’ve been wanting to see you fellows.”

“Looking for a fight?” asked Joe. “Sorry, but we’ve decided not to do any fighting until after Christmas because Santa Claus mightn’t like it and then he wouldn’t put anything in our stockings. You want to be careful, Biff. If Santa hears you’ve been shadow-boxing out in the main road you mightn’t get any lollipops on Christmas Eve.”

“Aw, dry up,” grumbled Biff. “I’ve been wanting to see you—no kidding.”

“What about?”

“What are you going to do in the Christmas holidays?”

“Don’t know,” replied Frank. “We haven’t made any plans yet. I guess we’ll just hang around town. We’ve got the ice-boat, and there’ll be some skating.”

“How about an outing of some kind? I’ve had that in my mind for the past two or three days. Don’t you think we could all get away somewhere and go camping.”

“Sounds good,” approved Joe. “Where shall we camp?”

“I don’t know. I thought you chaps could look after that end of it.”

“It isn’t so easy to go camping in winter. In summer there are lots of places.”

“Well, think it over,” said Biff. “If you think of a good place and decide to go, be sure and let me know. I’d like to be in on it.”

“Sure thing. We wouldn’t leave you out, Biff.”

“If we could get away right after school closes we could have a good long holiday in camp.”

“How about Christmas?” inquired Joe doubtfully. “We shouldn’t want to miss Christmas, should we?”

“Worrying about your presents?”

“I’d hate to miss them.”

“Maybe we could get them before we went.”

“In that case,” said Joe, relieved, “I wouldn’t care when we went to camp.”

“Well, think it over.” Biff made a vicious left swing at his imaginary sparring partner. “Be sure and let me know.”

Then he chased the invisible enemy down the road and was soon lost to sight around the bend.

“He’s going to miss one of those wild swings of his some day and knock himself out,” prophesied Joe. “I never did see a fellow so crazy about boxing.”

“He’s good at it. Still, that’s not a bad idea he has about camping during the Christmas holidays. We’ll talk it over with Chet.”

“Sure.”

The boys went on and in a short time they came to the Jefferson house. It was a large, gloomy mansion, set back some distance from the road, and when the boys went up the walk, which had been swept and shoveled clear of snow, it was with a quickening sense of anticipation.

They rang the bell.

“We’ll soon know what Mr. Jefferson wants to see us about,” said Frank.

The door opened.

The housekeeper, a prim, angular woman, regarded them silently for a moment.