The Crisscross Shadow Read online

  After they had made a full statement at headquarters, and asked the sergeant to report any developments to Chief Collig, the boys drove back to Bayport.

  Frank and Joe were puzzled by the day’s events, but their determination to find Breck was stronger than ever.

  Arriving home, they were greeted by their mother.

  “Come on, boys,” she said. “Hurry and wash. We’ll eat in a few minutes.”

  After dinner, which included a second helping of chocolate walnut cake, Frank said:

  “Joe, I have an idea. Why don’t we try tracking down the manufacturer of that key case Mother bought from Breck? In that way, perhaps we’ll be able to find out who he really is.”

  “Good idea. Let’s start now.”

  They went into their father’s study, where Mrs. Hardy had put the new key case. Joe turned it over carefully in his hand. There was no name on it.

  “But here’s something inside,” he announced.

  Imprinted on the leather, in a corner of the case, was an odd mark:

  The boys gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Now we’ve got something definite to go on,” Frank said, smiling. “Tomorrow we’ll show it to a leather-goods dealer and ask him what manufacturer uses this mark.”

  After football practice the next afternoon, they hurried straight to the shop of their white-haired friend Mr. Nobbly.

  “We’d like to find out who made this,” Frank explained, showing the key case. “Here’s the imprint. Can you tell us who uses this trademark?”

  Mr. Nobbly examined the mark closely. He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, boys, I never saw nor heard of that mark in all my thirty-five years in this business.”

  “Then it’s probably some private maker’s?” Frank asked.

  “No doubt. It’s fine, hand-tooled work. But it would be like hunting for a penny in the mud of Barmet Bay to find him.”

  Frank looked at Joe in disappointment. Another clue gone up in smoke!

  “Come on,” Joe said. “We’ll keep checking.”

  They thanked Mr. Nobbly and left the store. For the next few days the Hardys called at every possible place in their quest for the maker of the key case.

  They went to all the leather-goods shops in Bayport and examined key cases, wallets, handbags, and luggage. They even checked with shoe stores. But no one had ever seen such a mark.

  Finally the boys had to postpone their search and settle down to hard football practice. Saturday came with the big game against Hopkinsville.

  Frank was gloomy as the team donned their uniforms in the locker room.

  “I guess it’s no use trying to trace that symbol,” he said dejectedly to Joe, pulling on his jersey.

  “Looks as if you’re right,” his brother replied. “Well, let’s forget about it for a while. We have a game to play, and you know what a whale of a team Hopkinsville has this year.”

  As they trotted along the corridor of the field house, Frank spied a moccasin lying on the cement floor. Ordinarily he would not have done any more than kick it out of the way. But being interested now in everything made of leather he bent down and picked it up.

  “Joe, look!” he exulted. “The telltale mark!”

  “Sure enough,” Joe cried. “I wonder who dropped this.” He queried the members of his team as they came from the field house. None owned the moccasin.

  “Must be someone from Hopkinsville,” Frank mused. “We’ll find out later.”

  He took it along to the bench. The warm-up period was over and they were waiting for the whistle when one of the Hopkinsville players ran by. He noticed Frank holding the moccasin.

  “Say, what are you fellows doing with that?” he asked. “It belongs to one of our ends—George Parks.”

  “Where is he?” inquired Joe. “We want to ask him about this moccasin.”

  The Hopkinsville player pointed. “He’s the tall guy there.”

  At that moment the referee blew his whistle, signaling that the game was to begin.

  The biggest crowd in years had gathered to watch the contest. Hopkinsville won the toss and elected to defend the north goal with the wind at their backs. Frank and Joe waited tensely in their positions as the Hopkinsville booter carefully placed the ball for the kickoff.

  “Here it comes!” Frank cried. “Joe, it’s headed right for you!”

  Joe caught the end-over-end kickoff on the ten-yard line. Twisting and dodging, he carried the ball to mid-field. The Bayport stands cheered loudly.

  Frank gained a couple of yards on the next play on a smash-through tackle. Then, on the following play, Joe faded back and tossed a short pass to the left end, Tony Prito. The dark-haired, wiry youth, a close friend of the Hardys, took the ball for a first down on the Hopkinsville thirty-five.

  A couple of line bucks by Biff Hooper, another of their special friends, gained a few yards, and finally on the fourth down Joe faded back for a long pass.

  Frank shot down the field like a streak of lightning, the ball sailing straight toward him. But just as he was reaching for it, a Hopkinsville player batted it down, and the opponents took over.

  Frank moved along behind his linemen, grunting words of confidence to each in turn.

  But in three plays Hopkinsville was on the Bayport four!

  “This is the big one,” Frank thought. “We’ve got to hold. This is the time to call the secret defensive play we’ve been practicing all week.”

  As the teams lined up for fourth down, Frank called out crisply:

  “86X!”

  Both Bayport tackles, instead of making the usual defensive charge, remained fixed in their positions and let the offensive linemen come to them. Through the tiny space created by this forward motion, Chet and Frank knifed into the enemy backfield and made havoc of the play, Chet making the tackle and stopping Newman, the Hopkinsville ace, in his tracks. The secret play had worked! The threat was halted! The remainder of the period was chiefly a punting duel between Frank and Newman. Each would run two ground plays and then punt. After several such exchanges, it became clear that Frank was getting more yardage with his high booming kicks that spiraled deep into enemy territory every time.

  The Hopkinsville coach changed his strategy. He called a fresh end off the bench, briefed him with an arm around his thick shoulders, and sent him into the game. The team seemed to get a new life as he came trotting on. This meant their favorite pass play!

  Joe, just before he dropped back to his safety zone, got a quick glimpse of the replacement. He recognized him as George Parks!

  “Now I’ll be able to find out about the moccasin,” Joe thought, but his excitement was lost in the barking of signals by the Hopkinsville quarterback.

  Parks drifted down-field, got by Chet, and was lengthening his stride to take a long pass over his right shoulder, when Joe came racing across and knocked the ball right off his fingertips.

  Joe ran back a few steps to pick up the ball. Tossing it to the referee, he turned quickly to talk to George Parks about the moccasin. But Parks had left the game and was almost off the field! He had been sent in for one play and that was all.

  The first half ended in a scoreless tie. Each team went directly to its locker room.

  As the Hardys came running side by side onto the field for the second half, Frank whispered to Joe, “We’ll speak to Parks right after the game. That moccasin is a vital clue.”

  After the half-time interval Joe fastened his headgear a little more securely, took a reassuring look at George Parks on the Hopkinsville bench, and signaled for the kickoff.

  The second half was a seesaw affair, with each team getting breaks and losing them.

  With seconds to go in the last quarter, the Hopkinsville team suddenly fanned out in a widespread formation. Bayport shifted with them. Newman called his signals. Suddenly Joe noticed that Chet had not shifted. He was standing with a dazed look on his face. Then it dawned on Joe!

  Each pass had been made into Chet’s zone. He must have b
een hurt on that line smash. No doubt Newman would be throwing in there again!

  The ball was snapped to Newman. He began to fade way back. He threw a long, lazy pass that soared over Chet’s head toward the Bayport goal line.

  The timekeeper’s gun sounded as the ball was in flight. As soon as the ball was dead, the game would be officially over!

  Joe, who had anticipated the play, was at the goal line, a step ahead of the Bayport pass receiver. He leaped up, wrenched the ball out of the grasp of his opponent, whirled, and scooted across the field, just outside of his own goal line.

  At the fifty-yard line Frank threw a vicious block at the fastest enemy tackler, and Joe sprinted into the clear, with the wild uproar of the Bayport stands in his ears, straight down the sideline to the Hopkinsville goal.

  The score was Bayport 6, Hopkinsville O! Pandemonium reigned!

  As Frank sent the ball straight through the crossbars, the gun sounded the end of the game.

  Bayport had won 7-0 on Joe Hardy’s one-hundred-yard dash for a touchdown! Frank hug ged his brother, delirious with joy.

  “What a run! There’s never been a touchdown run that long in the history of Bayport High!”

  “Yea, Hardy boys!” the Bayport fans shouted as they poured onto the field.

  With cheers and singing, Frank and Joe were borne off the field on the shoulders of their teammates. When at last they were set down, more fans crowded around to pommel the boys and shake their hands.

  “Joe! Joe!” Frank shouted over the tumult. “We must see George Parks before he gets away!”

  But the boys were trapped by their admirers as the Hopkinsville team dejectedly disappeared from the field. Fifteen minutes went by. But finally the Hardys broke loose.

  They raced toward the parking lot, but when they reached it, they saw the Hopkinsville bus pulling out!

  CHAPTER V

  Buried Treasure

  FRANK and Joe gave chase, but it was too late. In a cloud of dust, the bus disappeared down the road, leaving the young detectives panting in the roadway.

  As they trudged back toward the field house, Joe said, “I wonder what Parks did about his moccasin. It was still under our bench a few minutes ago.”

  The boys retrieved it.

  “What say we return this to him tomorrow?” Frank asked.

  “You bet.”

  They would have driven over that evening, but there was a school dance. Chet’s attractive dark-haired sister Iola was going with Joe, and pretty blond Callie Shaw with Frank.

  Sunday afternoon the boys looked up Parks’ address in the telephone directory, then drove to Hopkinsville.

  “There’s the house, Frank,” Joe called out as they came to a tree-shaded ranch-style dwelling.

  The tall, good-looking ballplayer answered the door.

  “Hello, George,” Joe greeted him.

  “Joe and Frank Hardy!” the boy replied. “Come on in. Say, I’ll never forget you fellows after yesterday’s game.”

  “It sure was close,” Frank said.

  “What brings you to Hopkinsville?”

  “We’re returning some of your property.” Frank held out a bag containing the moccasin.

  “Thanks,” Parks said, after Frank had explained about finding the shoe. “I hated to lose that. Those loafers are the most comfortable shoes I own. I had to wear my football shoes home.”

  Taking off their overcoats, Frank and Joe quickly outlined their special reason for coming and pointed to the R mark inside the moccasin.

  “What we want to know,” said Frank, “is where you bought them.”

  “Golly,” George replied quickly, “I know where I got them, but I can’t tell you where they were purchased.”

  “You didn’t buy them yourself?” Joe asked.

  “No. My uncle gave them to me as a present for my birthday last spring. All I know is that the moccasins were made by an Indian tribe. But what tribe I couldn’t tell you,” he concluded.

  “Could you find out, George? It’s important. It may help to catch a thief!”

  “Good night!” Parks exclaimed. “That’s right. You fellows are detectives, aren’t you? Well, my uncle lives a couple of blocks from here. I’ll ask him.”

  He went to the phone, but the line was busy, so he suggested that they walk over. His uncle Ben was intrigued by the Hardys’ story of their quest for the maker of the leather goods.

  “I remember those moccasins well,” he said, drawing on his pipe. “I bought them from a stranger on a train. I never saw him before, and I’ve never seen him since.”

  “An Indian?” Frank asked.

  “No.”

  “Did he mention the name of the tribe?”

  Uncle Ben shook his head. “No, he didn’t—just said he’d bought them from an Indian and that they were too small for him.”

  The Hardys thanked Mr. Parks and George and started back to Bayport.

  “It looks as though we’re up a blind alley again. All of our clues lead us nowhere,” Frank muttered.

  “You know,” his brother said thoughtfully, “if that mark means anything, the name of the tribe may begin with an R. Maybe we ought to do some research on Indians.”

  “Good idea,” Frank agreed. “I wonder,” he added thoughtfully, “if Breck can be an Indian.”

  “He didn’t look like a full-blooded one.”

  “No, I meant a half-breed.”

  “I’ll settle for a quarter.”

  Presently a familiar house came into view.

  “Let’s stop at the Mortons’,” Joe suggested. “I’m getting hungry, anyway.”

  Chet and Iola were home. Iola was mixing a batch of waffles under her brother’s direction.

  “We’re just in time.” Joe grinned. “Hope you’ve got plenty.”

  “Sure,” Chet answered. “Iola, make twice as much batter. That’ll be enough for a starter.”

  “I don’t know about that,” his sister replied teasingly. “Perhaps I’d better mix three times as much.”

  The chunky football center was known for his appetite, and despite needling from his friends, never reduced his intake of food.

  Supper was a jolly affair, but eventually the talk got around to the mystery of Wylie Breck. Frank told of the slim clue they had picked up from Mr. Parks.

  He concluded the story by telling them that the moccasin had been made by an Indian tribe. As he was saying, “If only we knew the name of a tribe that begins with R,” Iola and Chet looked at each other strangely.

  “You know of one?” Joe asked.

  “N-no,” Chet replied, and in a moment disappeared from the room.

  The Hardys continued to eat waffles with syrup.

  As Joe got up to get more butter from the refrigerator, he gave a strangled cry. Frank turned to see what had startled him.

  Standing in the doorway was an Indian in battle regalia!

  He raised his hand commandingly. Then a deep but strangely familiar voice intoned: “I am Chief Wallapatookunk.”

  “Chet!” whooped the Hardys, roaring with laughter as they recognized their buddy.

  “Where in the world did you get that outfit?” Frank asked.

  Chet himself was struggling to maintain a dignified and fierce look.

  “This Indian warrior’s suit,” he replied solemnly. “Chief say you his prisoners.” He pointed to Iola. “Bring um white girl to Wallapatookunk.”

  Iola now was giggling but pretended to be alarmed and shrank toward Joe.

  “I will defend this maiden to the last arrow!” Joe said, then added, “Have a heart, Chet, before I die laughing. Where did you get that Indian costume?”

  “It’s this way, fellows,” Chet began, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping some of the red, black, and white crayon from his face. “My great-grandfather was a member of the Pashunk tribe.”

  “What!” Frank cried.

  “Honest Injun,” Chet insisted, “my great-grandfather belonged to the Pashunk tribe.”


  “He’s right,” Iola chimed in.

  “Great-grandfather Ezekiel Morton was honorary Chief Wallapatookunk of the Pashunks. This getup I’m wearing is a ceremonial outfit used only on special occasions. It’s been in our family for generations, and I just thought of it again when you mentioned those Indian moccasins.”

  “What does Wallapatookunk mean?” Frank asked.

  “Gee, fellows,” Chet stammered, “you really don’t want to know, do you?”

  “We certainly do,” Frank insisted.

  “Well, it means ‘Eat-a-Whole-Moose,’ ” Chet answered reluctantly.

  “Boy, your great-grandfather must have had some appetite. Say, why didn’t your folks call you Ezekiel?”

  “Whoever heard of a center called Ezekiel?” Chet countered, ignoring the gibe.

  “We don’t know exactly how our great-grandfather got the Indian name,” Iola spoke up, “but we do know a very strange legend that he used to tell. It has been handed down in our family.”

  “What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “According to the legend, a fabulous treasure is buried in the territory where the Pashunks used to live!”

  “Buried treasure!” The Hardys whistled in amazement.

  “Where?” Joe inquired.

  “No one knows.”

  “But there must be some clue,” Frank insisted.

  “Yes,” Chet assented. “The legend says the treasure is buried in a crisscross shadow!”

  “The shadow of what?” Joe asked.

  “That’s what we don’t know, but I sure wish we could find the treasure,” Chet concluded.

  Just then the doorbell rang and Iola excused herself to answer it.

  “Hi, Frank! Hello, Joe! Chet! What in the world!” cried Callie Shaw as she saw the boy’s costume and his multicolored streaked face.

  “Callie,” Joe said solemnly, with a sweep of his arm, “let me present Great Chief Walla—er —anyhow, heap big wheel among Indians!”

  Callie, though still puzzled, joined the outburst of laughter at Joe’s introduction of the disguised Chet.

  Then Frank brought her up to date on news in the Morton household and also what he and Joe had learned at Hopkinsville.

  “You’ve really made progress in your detecting,” Callie commented. “If you could only find out something further about that R imprint.”