The Yellow Feather Mystery
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - A Strange Request
CHAPTER II - A Three-cornered Puzzle
CHAPTER III - A Surly Student
CHAPTER IV - Unwanted Detectives
CHAPTER V - An Odd Bookmark
CHAPTER VI - Framed!
CHAPTER VII - A Thwarted Intruder
CHAPTER VIII - Snowbound
CHAPTER IX - Cat and Mouse Sleuthing
CHAPTER X - A Puzzling Ad
CHAPTER XI - Dangerous Waters
CHAPTER XII - A Disastrous Fire
CHAPTER XIII - A Minor Explosion
CHAPTER XIV - The Wild Chase
CHAPTER XV - A Frightened Bully
CHAPTER XVI - An Unexpected Twist
CHAPTER XVII - A Startling Story
CHAPTER XVIII - Cannonballs of Ice
CHAPTER XIX - Victory Snatched Away
CHAPTER XX - The Final Roundup
THE YELLOW FEATHER MYSTERY
THE famous young detectives Frank and Joe Hardy are caught up in a dangerous web of intrigue when they agree to help Greg Woodson search for his grandfather’s missing will. Greg feels sure that he is the rightful heir to his grandfather’s property, including Woodson Academy, but no trace of a will can be found.
Greg’s grandfather had promised to tell him about “Yellow Feather” shortly before he died. Who or what can Yellow Feather be? And where does Henry Kurt, the temporary headmaster of Woodson Academy, fit in? He insists that he is to inherit the school. Moreover, Kurt claims to have been threatened by Yellow Feather!
Frank and Joe risk their lives several times before they solve the mystery of Yellow Feather and trap a sinister criminal who will stop at nothing—even murder—to satisfy his greed for money.
Joe pulled himself and the boy up
Copyright © 1971, 1953, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-158746
eISBN : 978-1-101-07647-7
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
A Strange Request
SKATING against the stiff evening wind, Frank and Joe Hardy streaked across the frozen surface of Willow River toward Woodson Academy. The bright winter moon was rising beyond the buildings on their right along the riverbank.
“Why do you suppose Gregory Woodson phoned us to meet him at the school boathouse?” Joe asked.
“Just before the connection was broken, Greg said he feared that someone might overhear us in the dormitory,” Frank told his brother. “I guess what he’s going to tell us must be top secret.”
“It sure sounds so,” Joe remarked as the boys approached the meeting place. “Well, he ought to be here. It’s five-thirty.”
Dark-haired Frank Hardy, eighteen, and his blond brother, a year younger, were known in Bayport, where they lived, as clever detectives. Although they were still high school students, they often helped their father, a nationally famous sleuth, solve baffling cases. Occasionally they were asked to solve a mystery on their own, like the present one.
When the boys reached the boathouse raft, the building was pitch black and the silence intense. Suddenly a youthful voice called quietly:
“Come straight across the float, fellows. I’m right in front of you!”
“Is that you, Woodson?” Frank asked.
“Yes, it is. You’re the Hardys?”
“That’s right.”
As the boys walked forward on their skates, a tall, slender young man moved out of the shadows. The Hardys judged him to be about twenty-two.
“I’m sorry we were cut off when you phoned,” Frank began. “You want us to help you solve a mystery?”
“Yes. My grandfather, Elias Woodson, was headmaster and owner of the Academy until his recent death. It’s about the inheritance I’m supposed to receive that I’d like to talk to you.”
Both Hardy boys immediately warmed up to the pleasant young man and Joe said, “Our father’s an alumnus of the Academy and knew your grandfather well. I’m sure Dad would want us to help you.”
“Thanks,” Woodson responded. “I’m glad you’ll take the case—you might call it the mystery of the Yellow Feather.”
“Yellow Feather?” Joe repeated.
“I’ll explain in a moment,” Woodson replied.
“I have a key to the boathouse. Let’s go inside out of the wind and I’ll show you a clue I brought along.”
As the boys were about to enter the building, a wild scream out on the river arrested their attention.
“Look there!” Joe cried.
A short distance down the shore several students were skating near a large bonfire. Close by a large black hole yawned in the ice. Joe caught sight of a young boy trying to crawl back from the thin-surfaced area at the edge of it.
Joe did not wait. Like a flash he was off across the ice, with Frank and Greg trailing him. As Joe approached, the youngster shrieked in terror, crashed through the ice, and disappeared. There were cries of horror from his companions.
Without hesitation Joe slid into the dark water. As Greg Woodson and Frank looked on, ready to help, he rose to the surface with the struggling boy.
“Hold on!” Frank cried.
He had spotted a long log near the bonfire. Grabbing one end of it, he asked Greg to help him. Together they laid the log across the thin ice and the hole. While they held it, Joe pulled himself and the young skater up on it and slowly they made their way to a safe spot on firm ice.
Immediately the rescued twelve-year-old began to shake from the shock of the icy water. His friends crowded around in awe and fright, explaining to the Hardys that they had been playing snap-the-whip when their end player, Skinny Mason, had been flung off the firm ice.
“You okay, Skinny?” one of the players asked.
“I-I g-guess so.”
Frank whipped off his heavy leather jacket and wrapped it around the shivering boy.
“Th-thanks,” Skinny quavered. “I’ll b-be all r-right now.” He looked gratefully at Joe and added, “I’ll never forget that you s-saved my l-life!”
“Come on. We’d better get you both to the school,” Greg urged.
An older boy skated up, saying that he would take charge of Skinny. As he moved off with the youngster, Joe turned to Greg.
“Is there any place we can go where I can dry my clothes? I want to hear the rest of your story.”
Greg thought a moment. “I’ve got it—the caretaker’s cottage. Nobody will be there at this hour. The door’s always open and I know the Teevans well. They’ve been here a long time.”
When the boys reached the snow-covered riverbank they removed their skates and hurried through a patch of woods to the Teevan house. A low light shone inside. As Greg opened the door and invited them to enter, he remarked that Mrs. Teevan was the school cook.
A few minutes later the three were seated before an open fire. Joe had wrapped Mr. Teevan’s bathrobe about him while Greg put his clothes in the dryer. Then young Woodson made hot cocoa for all of them.
As Frank sipped the steaming drink, he said, “Tell us your story, Greg.”
“The night before Grandfather’s death I received a phone call from him at Myles College, where I’m a student. He explained that his health was failing rapidly, and he wanted to tell me about the Yellow Feather.
“
I never did find out what he meant,” the young man continued. “Grandfather suddenly became ill and hung up. The next day I received a call from Henry Kurt, the assistant headmaster, that my grandfather had died.”
“That’s too bad,” Frank said. “How long ago was this?”
“Several weeks,” Greg replied. “So far no will has been found. But Grandfather told me that he had willed me his entire estate.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Have you contacted his lawyer?”
“Yes. Grandfather obviously never consulted him in this matter.”
“Has a thorough search been made?” Joe inquired.
“Sure. I even tested all the walls at the school for secret panels and hidden closets. But now I have a new worry. Since I’ve been here searching, I’ve received several mysterious phone calls and a couple of unsigned letters warning me to leave Woodson Academy. I think the person is the Yellow Feather!”
The Hardys looked at each other, perplexed.
“It’s a mighty queer name for anyone unless he’s an Indian,” Joe commented. “Have you any clues to his identity?”
“Just a couple of days after Grandfather’s death, I received a peculiar letter. Grandfather had addressed the envelope—I’m sure of that, even though the ink was nearly washed off. Inside was a sheet of white paper with the name Hardy printed in the top left corner.”
“Yes?” Frank prodded, startled to hear that his own family might be involved in the mystery.
“That was the only writing on the sheet,” Greg explained. “But below the name was something most unusual—a group of small rectangular cutouts arranged horizontally. Here, I’ll show it to you.”
Greg crossed the room to where his jacket hung over a chair. He ran his hands through the pockets, at first slowly, then with frantic speed. At last he wheeled about, his face ash white.
“The paper—and the envelope—I’ve lost them!”
At the Hardys’ suggestion Greg Woodson made a search of all his pockets for the missing envelope. But it was of no avail.
“That piece of paper might be the key to the mystery of the Yellow Feather!” he said.
“Perhaps you dropped the envelope when we were rescuing Skinny,” Joe suggested.
Greg snapped his fingers. “Of course. It must have slipped out then.”
“Let’s take a look,” Frank proposed.
Joe’s clothes were now completely dry, so he quickly donned them. Greg borrowed flashlights from the kitchen closet, then the three boys grabbed their skates and hurried from the cottage. At the river’s edge they sat down to put on their skating shoes. As Greg knotted a broken lace, he said, “I’d hoped to become Grandfather’s assistant here after I graduate from college in June. Then when he died, I figured on running the school myself.”
“But until a will is found you can’t do that, I suppose,” Frank said.
“That’s right. And it won’t be easy to run the school even then. For the last few years, it has been a financial struggle to keep the Academy going.”
“Dad has mentioned that the enrollment’s fallen off,” Joe spoke up.
“But with certain new ideas I have, I believe it would pick up again,” Greg answered. Then he added, “I’m afraid the Yellow Feather is in some way responsible for the missing will. That’s why it’s so important to find him.”
By this time all three had started down the river. Fanning out with the borrowed flashlights, they searched from the boathouse all the way to the scene of Skinny Mason’s mishap.
“No envelope here,” Joe called.
There were negative responses from Frank in the middle and Greg on the other side.
Refusing to give up, they scanned the riverbank, thinking the wind might have blown the letter up on the shore. No luck!
Frank was about to suggest that he and Joe start for home and return in the morning when they heard the noise of a motor.
“Where’s that coming from?” Greg asked.
The buzzing sound seemed to be coming closer. As the boys peered toward a bend in the river, waving their flashlights, Frank shouted, “Hey, look out!”
With a shove he sent Greg and Joe sprawling to one side. As he did, a shadowy bulk bore down on them and whisked past in the darkness.
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “What kind of iceboat was that?”
Before anyone could answer, Frank gave another cry of warning.
A shadowy bulk bore down on them
“Here it comes back!”
But this time the iceboat was moving slowly. Just before it reached them it scraped to a complete stop.
“Hi, fellows! Thought I recognized your voices.”
“Chet Morton!” the Hardys cried out.
“What kind of gimmick is that?” Joe asked.
“It’s a cross between a bobsled and an iceboat,” said Chet as he hopped from the weird contraption. “I just finished putting it together a little while ago.”
The heavy-set boy was a loyal friend who had faced danger with the Hardys in many of their exciting adventures ever since he had helped them unravel their first mystery, The Tower Treasure.
With a sheepish grin Chet said, “I sure didn’t mean to come so close to you fellows, but I couldn’t see very far ahead. Besides, the rudder’s not working right.”
Frank introduced pug-nosed, freckle-faced Chet to Greg, then examined the strange-looking craft with his flashlight.
“No sail,” he observed. “But you certainly were moving along, Chet. Say—what’s this back here—a propeller?” Chet nodded.
“Almost like a catamaran,” Joe commented, “but for travel on ice. It’s a pretty swell idea.”
Proudly Chet admitted to being the inventor.
“Not only for ice,” he corrected Joe, “but for snow. It has interchangeable runners.”
Greg was impressed and said so.
“It works fine,” Chet told him. “That is, I was moving along pretty well until some guy on skates crossed right in front of me. I almost turned myself inside out to avoid hitting him.”
Chet pointed to the rudder, which was bent out of position.
“And then he had the nerve to bawl me out,” the boy complained. “I thought he’d shake his goatee right off onto the ice.”
Greg started. “You say he wore a goatee? Was he a man in his late thirties?” Chet nodded, and Greg went on, “That must have been Henry Kurt, the assistant headmaster I was telling you fellows about. The court appointed him to be in charge of the school until the year’s over.”
“He looked more like an absent-minded professor to me than a headmaster,” Chet remarked. “Skating along, trying to read some piece of paper by flashlight, instead of watching where he was going.”
Greg and the Hardys looked at one another. Could Kurt have picked up the missing letter?
Frank and Joe decided they would certainly try to find out the next day. After a few minutes’ further conversation, Greg excused himself to return to the Academy, saying he would see the boys in the morning.
“Sure thing,” they agreed.
After Greg had left, Frank said, “Let’s get this contraption started and head back to Bayport.”
“Yes, crank her up, Chet,” Joe demanded. “You can tow us all the way to town—and a late dinner.”
But when their stout friend attempted to spin the flywheel of the small motor which ran the craft’s propeller, there was no response. Grunting from the exertion, Chet tried again and again.
“Something’s wrong!” he wailed. “It won’t catch! Well,” he added with a resigned sigh, “I guess you fellows will have to tow me home.”
“What!” Joe protested. “We can’t drag that thing five miles to Bayport. It would take all night.”
Frank offered the only possible solution. “Biff Hooper’s folks have a summer place up here, you know. We can pull your gimmick over to their dock, Chet, and tie it up for tonight. Tomorrow you can come back and do a repair job.”
“Okay,”
Chet agreed. “But you’ll have to help me.”
It took only a few minutes to find the Hooper cabin. After Chet had lashed his craft to the dock, he put on the skates he had brought along and the trio headed for Bayport.
It was well past the usual dinner hour at the Hardy home when Frank and Joe trotted up the front steps. Mrs. Hardy met them at the door.
“I’m glad you’re home!” said their mother, a slim, pretty woman, who had been watching anxiously for her sons. “Your dinner’s in the oven.”
Another voice, pleasant but firm, broke in. “You’re lucky we saved you something. How come you boys are so late?”
The speaker was their father’s sister, who lived with the Hardys. Each time her nephews got involved in a new case, she predicted dire consequences. But despite their Aunt Gertrude’s constant chiding about the risks they ran, the boys were extremely fond of her.
Before Frank and Joe could explain the reason for being late for dinner, a deep male voice boomed out, “Hi, boys. Good thing you’re here. I want to talk to you before I catch a plane.”
Fenton Hardy, their tall, dark-haired father, smiled broadly as he came downstairs. He led them into the dining room, and while Aunt Gertrude served them roast lamb and vegetables, the young sleuths reported their adventure.
When they had finished, Mr. Hardy grinned. He reached into his pocket and drew out a white piece of paper.
“Have a look at this,” he said and held it up.
In the upper left-hand corner the name Hardy had been printed by hand. Below it were a series of rectangular cutouts!
Both boys stared dumbfounded, then cried out, “Where’d that come from?”
“Henry Kurt, the headmaster of Woodson Academy, brought it to me a little while ago.”
“What!” the boys shouted in astonishment.
“Kurt,” Mr. Hardy went on, “wants me to solve the mystery of the Yellow Feather!”
CHAPTER II
A Three-cornered Puzzle
“KURT asked you to solve the mystery of the Yellow Feather?” Frank gasped.
“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He left here just a short time before you arrived. He had a pair of skates tucked under his arm—must have skated down from the school.”