The Secret of the Lost Tunnel Read online

  A blinding flash, coming simultaneously with a terrible ripping sound, interrupted the boy.

  “Watch out!”

  Joe pitched himself at Chet, bowling him out of the way of the splintered trunk of a tree only an instant before it buried itself in the brush where the boy had been crouching.

  “That was too close for comfort!” Chet panted with fright. “Let’s get out of these woods!”

  The Hardys needed no urging. With Joe carrying the rifle, the boys quickly made their way through the howling, thrashing storm. They were drenched and water was squishing out of their shoes by the time they reached the car and tumbled onto the seats. Frank quickly started the engine and headed through the teeming rain toward Centerville.

  Reaching General Smith’s home, the soaked boys dashed to their rooms for a change of clothes. Upon returning to the first floor, they found their host in the living room. The man was greatly agitated when he heard the story of the electrified trap.

  “An attempt to kill you! I’d like to lay my hands on those fiends! Where’s the rifle?”

  “On the back seat of the car,” Joe said. “I’ll go out and get it.”

  “No, wait till it stops pouring.”

  Then the boys related the episode of finding the note in the canteen and showed it to the general. He was astonished.

  “This is remarkable!” the officer exclaimed incredulously. “Now we’re ready for the big push! And I’d suggest no time be lost.”

  “I think the rifle may prove to be a good clue, too,” Frank declared. He glanced out the window. “It’s stopped raining now. I’ll go get it.”

  Side-stepping puddles of water like a football player in broken-field practice, he ran to the garage.

  “What’s this?” Frank said, stepping inside. He bent down to examine wet footprints on one side of the car.

  “Oh no!” An awful thought flashed through his mind. Frank put his hand on the car door handle. Wet! The boy’s fears were confirmed when he flung the door open.

  Inside the house, Joe and the general waited for Frank to return with the gun clue. They heard his racing steps, then saw him dash into the room empty-handed.

  “Where’s the rifle?” Joe said.

  “It’s gone!”

  “Impossible!”

  “I tell you, Joe, the rifle’s disappeared!”

  CHAPTER X

  The Missing Rifle

  “I CAN’T believe it!” Joe dashed out to search for himself. Soon it was obvious to all of them—the rifle had disappeared.

  “We were followed!” Frank exclaimed. “What chumps we were not to bring it into the house!”

  “Somebody must have wanted that gun pretty badly to come out in the storm to get it,” Chet commented when they were in the house again.

  “It was probably covered with the culprit’s fingerprints,” Frank mused. “Anyway, there goes a piece of evidence.”

  Joe thought a moment. “Maybe someone plans to use it in the shoot tomorrow. We’ll have to do some investigating there.”

  “You’re a good marksman, Joe,” Chet spoke up. “Why don’t you enter the contest?”

  “With what?” Joe asked.

  General Smith got up, walked over to a cabinet, and unlocked it. “Here’s my great-grandfather’s rifle,” he said. “Glad to have you use it, Joe.”

  The boy was thrilled and gratefully accepted the offer. That evening, after a sumptuous Southern dinner expertly prepared by Claude, the general schooled the boys in the nomenclature of Civil War firearms and gave Joe pointers on firing.

  “These old muzzle loaders,” the officer said, “fired homemade bullets. I have a box of them you can use tomorrow.” He produced the bullets and also a mold in which they were made.

  The three boys could hardly wait until the next morning, which dawned bright and dear, an ideal day for a rifle shoot.

  Claude served another delicious breakfast, which included hot biscuits and a fluffy omelet. Then, taking the general’s antique rifle, the boys and the officer drove to the site of the marksmanship event. The target range was laid out at the edge of town in a field alongside the highway.

  Joe registered with the officials, who examined his weapon and approved it. Then he joined his companions, and all walked up to the firing line. On a table lay the prizes. The one marked first prize took the boys’ eyes. It was the latest model target rifle with a telescopic sight.

  Suddenly Joe clutched Frank’s arm. “There’s the stolen rifle!” He pointed to a youth holding an antique firing piece.

  The Hardys spoke quietly to the others, doing their best to conceal the excitement they felt.

  “This is the time for a showdown!” Joe declared.

  “I agree,” the officer assented.

  “We’d better confront him right now before the meet begins,” Frank suggested.

  With the general following, the boys strode over to where the youth was standing. Joe faced him squarely.

  “I believe that’s my rifle you have.”

  “Says who?” The youth stared defiantly as a small crowd gathered, sensing a fracas.

  “We all say so!” Frank said firmly.

  The youth raised the weapon menacingly.

  “Prove it!” he cried.

  “Put that down!” General Smith snapped.

  The officer’s command, plus the added weight of his uniform, caused the young fellow to change his attitude. He lowered the rifle until the stock rested on the ground, then continued his protest.

  “I didn’t take nobody’s gun,” he said stoutly. “You can’t prove this is yours.”

  Joe realized that he had only a slim claim to the rifle. Since he had found the weapon in the woods, he could present no receipt to show he had purchased it. The boy might be telling the truth. There was the possibility that two firing pieces were identical.

  General Smith broke the deadlock. “We’ll look into this later. The shoot mustn’t be delayed.”

  At that moment an official sounded the bugle call. The contestants lined up. The shoot began with burst after burst of musketry.

  As Frank watched Joe with his shirt open at the neck and his eye cocked over the sight of the Civil War rifle, he mused that his brother could have stepped out of the pages of a history book!

  The boy’s finely muscled arms held the weapon firmly and the general observed with pleasure his gentle squeeze of the trigger.

  “Atta boy, Joe!” Chet shouted as his friend scored a bull’s-eye.

  Joe gave his companions a brief smile, then hurried to reload. The boy handled the firearm like a veteran, blazing away shot after shot.

  “Cease fire!”

  As one of the judges shouted the command, the riflemen put down their weapons so the targets could be inspected. The four with the highest scores would continue.

  Joe turned out to be among the remaining contestants—and so was the youth he had confronted!

  “Come on, Joe, beat that guy!” Chet banged a clenched fist into the palm of his hand.

  Joe looked toward the general. The officer nodded encouragingly as the meet resumed. Ten shots apiece!

  Joe’s rifle spoke with precision as he sent bullet after bullet ripping into the target. Once Joe glanced at the youth standing beside him. His opponent remained calm and expressionless, firing quickly after loading and aiming.

  A sudden silence told the onlookers the marksmen had finished. The judges hurried forward to examine the targets.

  “Five out of ten!” one of them reported, peering at the first target.

  “Seven out of ten!” came the next call.

  The official who examined the surly youth’s target announced, “Eight out of ten!”

  A judge studied Joe’s target. The man paused a moment and beckoned another official to his side. Together they examined the card carefully. One of them cleared his throat.

  “Eight out of ten! Tie score!”

  Frank ran up and thumped his brother on the back. “Swell, J
oe!”

  The boy grinned. “But I didn’t win.” He stepped toward the fellow who had tied the score. “Nice going! Maybe they’ll let us shoot it out.” His rival turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Great guy!” Chet muttered sarcastically.

  General Smith praised Joe and went on to say that the judges were arranging a shoot-off.

  “You’ll get a ten-minute rest,” he relayed. “Sit down here on the grass and relax.”

  As Joe stretched out beside his rifle, Frank and Chet wandered off among the spectators.

  “Let’s see if we can find Joe’s rival,” Frank suggested. Then he added, “Oh, hi there!”

  “Enjoyin’ yourself?” asked the genial old Registrar of Deeds from the courthouse.

  “We sure are!” Frank answered. “It’s great fun to watch them shoot these old Civil War weapons.”

  “They made some real dandy guns in the old days,” the man mused. “My grandfather manufactured ’em. But I don’t know what’s becomin’ of our local boys,” he added regretfully.

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man took a couple of quick puffs at his corncob pipe and blew the smoke idly out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Our boys,” he said, “ain’t as good shots as you visitin’ fellers.”

  “But one of your local fellows tied my brother! And who knows—he might win the meet,” Frank observed.

  “You mean that lad with the steady eye? He ain’t from these parts,” the man declared.

  The remark startled Frank. “You mean he’s a visitor, too? He talks like you folks in Centerville.”

  “Don’t know where he’s from, but it ain’t Centerville,” the man insisted.

  Just then Chet, who had been standing nearby looking at the crowd, pulled Frank’s arm. “Come here quick.”

  “What’s up?”

  “That guy over there. Whoops—he’s gone now!”

  “Who was he?”

  “ ‘Smi—’ something, that scar-mouthed guy at the museum. He was standing right behind you when you were talking to that old fellow. I bet he was trying to hear what you said.”

  Frank scanned the crowd, but could see no figure resembling Professor Randolph’s guard.

  Disappointed, Frank turned to Chet. “I have some interesting news. Let’s go back to Joe.”

  They hurried to where Joe was reclining. General Smith was sitting on a tree stump alongside of him.

  Frank told them about his brother’s rival not being a local inhabitant. “The whole setup seems odd,” he remarked. “I’d say he bears some investigating.”

  “Perhaps he’s one of the ‘strangers’ my friend Jeb was talking about,” General Smith commented, frowning.

  “I’m going to ask him where he’s from,” Frank said. He strolled off in the direction of the youth who had reappeared, and was standing alone under a tree.

  Chet followed eagerly.

  “Good shooting!” Frank declared, walking up to the young man. The Hardy boy received only a cold stare.

  “I hear you’re not from town,” Frank went on pleasantly. “Where do you hail from?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Just curious,” Frank replied nonchalantly.

  Suddenly the youth’s expression hardened. A frown creased his forehead, making him look much older. His eyes darted through the crowd as if he were looking for someone.

  Frank’s eyes followed. Perhaps the marksman was seeking a pal, the young sleuth mused.

  As the Hardy boy diverted his gaze to the crowd, the wily youth swung the barrel of his rifle.

  “Duck!” Chet shouted. But not in time.

  The weapon caught Frank on the side of the head and he fell dizzily to the ground!

  CHAPTER XI

  Pleasanton’s Bridge

  A SHOUT went up from the onlookers at the shoot. Chet tried to grab Frank’s assailant, but the fellow gave him a quick shove which sent the stout boy sprawling. Then the stranger whirled and darted along the fringes of the crowd.

  In a second Frank staggered to his feet. Despite the pain from the blow to his head, he set off after his adversary. Chet raced behind.

  Joe, who had been attracted by the noise of the crowd, joined the chase.

  As the attacker ran into the woods, Frank was hot on his trail. Suddenly a voice like chilled steel rang out.

  “Stop where you are!”

  A long rifle barrel protruded from behind a tree. Frank immediately recognized it as that of the youth.

  In a flash Frank hurled himself to the ground, behind a bush. As he lay there, wondering what he should do next, the ambusher uttered a cry of pain. The weapon dropped from his grasp. Then the rifleman turned and dashed off through the brush like a streak of lightning.

  “Are you all right, Frank?” came a voice behind him.

  Frank rolled over to see his brother looking down at him anxiously.

  “Did you do that?” Frank asked as he rose from the ground.

  “Sure did. When I saw you drop, I figured something must be the matter. Then I spotted the rifle barrel sticking out from behind the tree, so I grabbed a rock and threw at it. Pretty good pitching if I do say so myself.”

  “Glad you didn’t miss,” Frank remarked wryly, advancing with Joe toward the place where the weapon had fallen. “You probably saved my life!”

  Frank picked up the rifle and the two boys returned to where they had left General Smith.

  Enraged by the story of the unwarranted attack on Frank, the general immediately went to find an official to report the incident.

  “Did you find out that guy’s name?” Frank asked his brother as they examined the firing piece.

  “No. But maybe the general did. Here he comes now.”

  General Smith hurried up with the judges of the meet. With them was a policeman. Joe told of the ambush incident.

  “That kid won’t get away with this,” the policeman declared. “I’ll report it right away.”

  Joe asked who the boy was.

  The general answered. “He signed the registrar as Jimmy somebody, but he scribbled the last name. We can’t make it out.

  “Probably done on purpose,” Frank remarked. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll bet Jimmy is Junior of Bush’s gang! This rifle certainly looks like the one set as a trap in the woods!”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of somebody crashing through the bushes. Out burst Chet, his clothes bedraggled and perspiration pouring from his face.

  “Where’ve you been? Running a marathon?” Joe asked his friend, who was gasping for breath.

  Frank threw his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Take it easy, Chet. We can wait.”

  When he was breathing normally again, Chet swallowed hard and said, “I saw him! I know where he went!”

  “Who?”

  “That guy who socked Frank.”

  Chet said he had seen the stranger flee, had circled the woods, and spotted the fellow coming out of the trees at the edge of Centerville. He had headed into town, and Chet had followed, unobserved.

  “I ... I saw him run into the hotel,” the boy reported. “I peeked in a window, and there he was in the lobby talking to Professor Randolph!”

  “Good night!” Joe exploded.

  “I wonder what they’re up to,” Frank mused. “Let’s go and find out!”

  Leaving the judges, who promised to send Joe the prize rifle which he had won by default, the boys and the general hurried to their car. Joe locked his borrowed rifle, as well as the vengeful youth’s weapon, in the trunk. Then, with Frank at the wheel, the group sped to Centerville.

  The Hardys dashed through the hotel doorway. Joe, in his headlong rush, bowled over a man onto the plush carpet of the lobby floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” the boy said, bending over to help the man to his feet. “Professor Randolph!”

  The man brushed off his suit coat, straightened his string
tie, and glared. “Watch where you’re going! Do you want to hurt somebody?”

  “We don’t,” Frank spoke up. “But we have an idea somebody you know would like to harm us.”

  “Name’s Jimmy,” Joe blurted. “He nearly took a shot at my brother in the woods! Where is he?”

  The professor stepped back a pace, his eyes narrowing as the general entered the lobby with Chet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said firmly.

  “I saw you talking to him right in this lobby!” Chet declared.

  The professor’s eyes snapped fire. “I don’t know anybody named Jimmy,” he said icily. “If you’ll step aside, I’ll continue on my way.” He hurried out the door and quickly disappeared.

  “Maybe you got your wires crossed, Chet, and saw him talking to somebody else,” Joe said.

  Chet insisted he was not mistaken. At his suggestion, Frank checked with the desk clerk, who verified that Randolph had been talking to a young man. The clerk’s description of the youth fitted Frank’s assailant.

  The three boys went to the hotel washroom, where Frank bathed the bruise on the side of his head.

  “We’ll have to go to the museum if we want to get hold of Randolph again,” Joe declared as they returned to the hotel porch where General Smith stood waiting.

  But Frank thought they should get to Pleasanton’s Bridge without delay. The general settled the matter.

  “You fellows continue your search for the gold,” he said. “I’ll go to the museum to investigate this man Randolph.” The general grinned. “It’ll give me a chance to find out how much I’ve learned from you Hardys about detective work.”

  After a quick lunch at the hotel, the boys set off, once more for Pleasanton’s Bridge. Frank drove to the new span and parked the car behind a huge old oak tree, hoping no one would notice it.

  Presently they reached the pile of rotting logs that once had been a cabin. All was peaceful. Rocky Run gurgled and churned musically around the smooth boulders scattered along the stream bed.

  “Let’s take a rest,” Chet suggested. “This heat is killing me.”

  Frank remarked it was no place to be caught napping. “The more we keep our eyes open, the better it will be,” he said.

  The boys went on. About fifteen minutes later, they came upon two stone abutments on either side of the stream. They were completely covered with vines and moss.