The Hidden Harbor Mystery Page 8

  Meanwhile, Frank jumped into the water beside his brother. Three quick slashes with his jack-knife severed the underwater vines, and the two boys scrambled onto the trunk in safety.

  “Whew!” Joe gulped. “Thanks, lifesaver! Let’s go.”

  The brothers once more started off in the direction they judged the seaplane to be. “All” they kept shouting. “Al West!”

  No answer from the pilot came through the dim swamp. But now, the tops of the cypresses swayed and the hanging moss quivered as the advance winds of the storm began to pick up. Suddenly, from some distance behind the Hardys, an airplane engine roared.

  “We’ve been heading in the wrong direction!” Frank cried out. “Come on! Hurry!”

  The treacherous, boggy ground prevented quick progress, however. All around the light was quickly dimming. Frank and Joe forged doggedly on, and finally the throb of the plane’s engine grew louder.

  “We’re getting there!” Frank panted in relief.

  At last they broke through to the shore of the pond. Overhead, dark shreds of clouds were being driven across the sky like streams of smoke. A light rain slanted across the water and Al West, with a worried frown, was just about to take off.

  Upon seeing Frank and Joe, he gave a joyful shout. “You were gone such a long time,” he called, “I got scared, and revved up the motor for a signal. Storm’s arriving ahead of schedule. If we take off now, we’ll just about make it!”

  Quickly the boys climbed aboard. Turning the plane, Al ran it down the pond until she rose, bucking, into the stiff gusts of the approaching storm.

  Now the lead-gray sea, crossed with white foam, was running high up the beach below.

  “Chet!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. “He’s had no warning of the hurricane. We must get to him. Al, can you set us down near our camp?”

  The pilot looked out his window, against which the rain was beating hard. “Sea’s getting too mean for this ship,” he said. “Even that fishing smack has run for shelter somewhere. I know! There’s a flat, firm beach a little way up from your place.”

  Minutes later, the skilled pilot brought his plane down in a neat landing only yards from the big breakers now crashing higher and higher up the sand.

  “So long—good luck!” the Hardys called as Al lifted his craft into the buffeting air currents once more, and winged for the airport.

  Frank and Joe plowed through the sand toward camp. “Wow!” Joe exclaimed, struggling against the wind. “It must be blowing at forty miles an hour already!”

  Whirling sand and gale-driven rain slashed at the boys as they raced along the beach and rounded the big dune. Just as they did, Frank gave a shout.

  “Our tent!”

  Their canvas shelter, straining from its one remaining rope, suddenly jerked loose and was carried off by the howling wind.

  Fearfully the brothers looked around the devastated camp, now a confusion of ropes, poles, and blowing sand. There was no sign of Chet.

  “Maybe he’s taken shelter,” Joe yelled above the screaming gale. “We’d better find some ourselves!”

  “Let’s try the underground passage to Rand‘s,” Frank decided quickly. “It’s the safest place.”

  As the winds increased to hurricane force, making a continual eerie wail in the scrubby pines, the boys set out on a loping run from the beach toward the pond.

  The storm rose to full fury. The sky had become pitch dark, although it was only about six o‘clock. Cold, heavy sheets of rain drove in sideways from the sea. The wind pressed relentlessly at the boys’ backs.

  They were forced to break into a fast run along the pond toward Rand’s. Suddenly, above them, came an explosive splintering sound.

  “Look out!” Frank yelled, yanking Joe aside.

  The next instant an enormous dead oak, throwing up its network of roots, landed right in front of the boys!

  “Close call!” cried Joe.

  They skirted around the fallen tree, and pounded uphill toward the hedge. Then they rolled down the steep embankment on the other side, and groped their way until they found the heavy wooden door. At last, exhausted, they stumbled into the dry darkness of the old brick passage.

  The winds increased to hurricane force

  The sound of voices and a flickering light came from the old beverage room ahead. As the Hardys dashed in, a bulky, comical-looking person was taking off hat after hat, coat after coat, blanket after blanket, shirt after shirt. Looking on and laughing were Grover and his grandson Timmy.

  “Chet Morton!” Frank cried with mingled relief and amusement. “Clowning it up in the middle of a hurricane!”

  Their friend turned his grinning face to them. “Had to do something to keep from worrying about you fellows. Thank goodness you’re okay!”

  Then he explained cheerfully, “Couldn’t waste time carrying clothes. Had more important things to carry.” Chet pointed to a well-packed carton of groceries. “So I just wore everything I could.”

  “Why didn’t you wear the tent, too?” Joe needled. “We just saw it blow away!”

  Chet had rescued enough shirts and trousers for Frank and Joe to change into dry clothing.

  “Guess you all could use a bite to eat,” said Grover. Immediately Chet went into action. The stout boy dug into his supplies, and using Grover’s little stove, soon had a steaming supper of stew, bread, and hot coffee for everyone.

  Afterward, the five drew chairs up to the wooden table and listened to the shrieking of the wind outside.

  “Man, that’s some storm!” Chet commented.

  “Yes, sir, it sure is,” Grover agreed. “But I reckon it’s not so bad as the one grandpappy used to tell about when I was just a mite of a boy. That big storm came when he was a young fellow, just after the Civil War. Waves were as big as houses, he said. Knocked down so many trees and blew things so every which way, nobody could recognize this place after it was over!”

  “It must have been the same blow we read about this morning in the old town newspapers,” Frank said.

  The old man took a thoughtful look at his ceiling. “Yes, sir,” he went on, “that old storm did such a powerful lot of damage, it was all folks could do to straighten things out.”

  While Grover went on to tell of other bad storms, little Timmy listened with wide eyes. Now and then he fingered some little trinket from his pocket.

  “What have you there, Timmy?” Joe asked curiously. “May I see it?”

  Shyly the boy lowered his eyes and shook his head.

  “Come on,” Joe coaxed. “I won’t hurt it, cross my heart.”

  But the youngster retreated behind his grandfather and plunged both hands into his pockets.

  “I have an idea,” said Frank in a short time. “Let’s play a game. Each person has to take two things he doesn’t especially want out of his pocket, and put them on the table. He must tell where he got them. Afterward, each player chooses one thing from somebody else and keeps it.”

  Chet and Joe exchanged comprehending glances with Frank. “Here’s a chocolate bar and a lucky rabbit’s foot,” said the stout boy. “I bought the candy and the rabbit’s foot at a stationer’s.”

  Soon the wooden table was covered with small articles. Timmy, eying them excitedly, laid out a chipped arrowhead and a flat stone blade.

  “That’s a hide scraper,” Frank thought excitedly. “An Indian one!”

  “Found‘em in the dirt,” Timmy said hurriedly, “near the pond by a big old dead oak.”

  “Okay, Timmy,” said Frank, trying to conceal his excitement. “You’re sure you want to part with these?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Now you choose something you’d like.”

  Eagerly the little boy snatched up a flashlight key chain that Joe had put down. Joe picked up the chipped arrowhead and Frank chose the hide scraper. The boys offered the rest of the items to Timmy, who scooped them up happily.

  Later, Chet, sensing that the Hardys wanted to examine their �
�winnings,” encouraged Grover to reminisce some more about local events.

  Frank and Joe bent over the artifacts. “These must be from the lost Indian village Professor Rand is looking for,” Joe surmised.

  Frank agreed. “If we could only find the actual site,” he said, “maybe we could bargain with Rand. We’ll trade him relics for information about the Blackstone family.”

  The storm continued unabated. As the night wore on, old Grover and Timmy lay down on cots at the back of the beverage room. Frank, Joe, and Chet, not sleepy, sat up around the kerosene lamp and talked in low voices. At last the sound of the wind dropped off, and finally stopped altogether.

  “Must be about over,” said Joe. He checked his watch. “It’s almost morning.”

  Leaving the old man and the boy asleep, the three blew out the lamp and slipped into the passage. Cautiously they pushed open the heavy door and emerged into the meadow.

  A light rain still fell, with short gusts of wind. But overhead, the first light of dawn was showing in the gray-white sky.

  “The worst is past,” Frank announced. “It’ll clear off later.”

  The boys made their way with difficulty toward the pond. Enormous uprooted trees lay on the ground, some crisscrossed atop one another. Logs and leafy debris floated on the surface of the pond.

  The boys headed for the beach. Even from a distance they could see huge waves still running up much farther than usual.

  “Where’s our campsite?” Chet gasped. “And the two big dunes?”

  A completely flat beach lay around them for hundreds of yards.

  “Vanished!” declared Frank, astounded. “You’d never know they’d been here!”

  Suddenly his own words seemed to electrify the youth. Frank whirled and began to run. “Back to the pond,” he called to the others.

  Mystified, Joe and Chet raced after him. Soon, breathing hard, they gazed again on a completely changed scene of fallen trees, uprooted brush, and new pools of water. Portions of the bank had been broken down and washed into the pond.

  “Yes, of course!” Frank exclaimed. “This is it!”

  Joe’s eyes lit up with excitement as he, too, suddenly understood.

  “Is what?” Chet asked blankly.

  “Hidden Harbor!” Frank exulted. “We’ve found it!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Revealing Argument

  “WE’VE found Hidden Harbor?” asked Chet, eagerly looking around. “Where is it?”

  “Right here!” Frank answered jubilantly. “The pond is Hidden Harbor!”

  The stout boy appeared more puzzled than ever.

  “It just occurred to me,” Frank explained, “if the hurricane we had last night could wipe out those big sand dunes and knock over trees the size of these around here, what a terrific amount of damage the tremendous Civil War storm must have caused. It could have changed the topography around this whole bay! Probably closed up the channel from the ocean with silt, trees, brush, and sand. If pirates did use Hidden Harbor, they had to stop their smuggling into it.”

  Excitedly Joe snapped his fingers. “Remember the wide strip of lighter water we spotted from the air? That’s part of the old channel! After the Civil War hurricane it became clogged with sand.”

  “Whoopee!” Chet cried, elated at the discovery. “When do we start looking for the buried fortune? Grover said it’s at the mouth of the harbor. That would be the side of the pond nearest the ocean.”

  “Yes,” Frank confirmed. “We start right away. But first we’ll need our skin-diving equipment.”

  “I hope there’s something left of it,” Joe said gloomily.

  “Oh, I put the gear in the trunk of the car,” Frank reminded him. “It ought to be all right. Say! Where is the car, Chet?”

  “Parked in some pines a few hundred yards from the beach.”

  “I’ll bring back the equipment,” Frank offered. “Meantime, why don’t you two take a half hour’s rest? I’ll see you at the pond.”

  Accordingly, Frank hiked to the pine trees alone. He found the yellow convertible undamaged, but half covered by drifting sand. Frank cleared the car, and took out the diving gear. It was intact. He hoisted the rucksack containing the outfits to his shoulders and headed for the pond.

  As he neared it, Frank passed the huge fallen oak. He looked about for Chet and Joe. He was about to call out when the sound of an angry voice made him duck behind an old gnarled tree. The harsh tones were those of Samuel Blackstone!

  With a crash of brush the heavy-set man broke into the open space in front of Frank’s hiding place. Behind him trailed the beanpole figure of Henry Cutter.

  “No!” roared Blackstone. “I positively will not sell my rights to this pond. Can’t you get that through your head, Cutter?”

  “You’ll have to admit, though, the pond has been nothing but trouble to you,” Cutter said unctuously. “Indirectly, it has damaged your family name, and led you into bringing a lawsuit. Why, it’s even caused you to reopen the old family quarrel with Rand. What good is it to you?”

  “And what use is it to you, sir, may I ask?” Blackstone retorted.

  “Mr. Stewart and I,” Cutter said patiently, “as I’ve told you, would like to purchase this water, with the surrounding land, to set up a small private fishing club. We would stock the pond, open a channel to the ocean, and bring parties in by motorboat.”

  “Fishing club!” snorted Blackstone. “Do you think I was born yesterday, Cutter? What’s your real game? You’re in with Rand, aren’t you? The two of you—trying to get my property. That intellectual thinks he knows where to find the lost fortune, and wants it for himself!”

  Infuriated, Blackstone seized his pale companion and shook him.

  “No one is getting a square inch of my land or a drop of this pond while I’m alive!” he thundered. “You hear? Not while I’m alive!”

  With that, he released the thinner man and strode off. Cutter, paler than ever, glared after the retreating Blackstone. Then he turned abruptly and disappeared into the swamp.

  “Wish I had time to follow Cutter,” Frank thought. “But right now I have another job.”

  After waiting a few minutes, Frank emerged from behind the tree. A familiar low whistle came from above. He looked up. Peering at him from a strong tree limb, sat Joe and Chet! Quickly the two boys dropped to the ground.

  “We heard Blackstone shouting,” Joe told his brother, “so we shinned up out of sight.”

  “Saw the whole thing,” Chet added.

  “Some hot argument!” Joe remarked. “Seems to prove Cutter isn’t working for Blackstone. Do you make anything else out of it?”

  “Only this,” Frank replied. “The old feud was caused by both the Blackstones’ and the Rands’ knowing about Clement’s buried treasure. The feud started not just because of the division of land, but because each side thought the treasure was buried somewhere between those two oak trees, and wouldn’t give up one foot of ground.”

  Chet sighed. “Boy, this thing’s sure getting complicated. Well, are you ready to go diving?”

  “Ready.”

  Chet helped Frank and Joe put on their diving equipment.

  “This will be the first time we’ve been down in daylight,” Frank noted. “Visibility ought to be a lot better.”

  “You’d better take your spears in with you,” Chet warned, “in case that monster is lurking underwater!”

  Soon the boys submerged off the ocean side of the pond. The sun had broken through, and Chet, straining his eyes, could see the boys kicking along with their flippers, testing the bottom. But finally they moved off into deeper water.

  For two hours the search went on. The swimmers dug into mud and sand, and poked their spearheads into caverns formed by twisting cypress roots. Occasionally, they surfaced to rest.

  During one of their pauses, Frank said, “The money and papers are probably in a metal chest. Hard to guess the size, since we don’t know how much is in it.”

 
; “A tremendous amount of silt could have settled over it since the stuff was buried.” Joe remarked.

  The brothers continued the underwater search but were unable to find any metal object.

  “There’s a mess of sand down there,” said Joe as the divers removed their gear. “What we need are some real digging and scraping tools.”

  “Yes, and a metal detector,” Frank added. “We ought to be able to pick up one in Larchmont.”

  “We’ll go shopping later,” Frank said, “if we can get our car started.”

  “Why don’t we go right away, fellows?” Chet complained. “We haven’t eaten in ages. I’m all hollow inside.”

  “Why, Chet!” Joe grinned, fully dressed once more. “Who wants to eat when we can spend profitable hours looking for Indian relics?”

  “Relics,” Chet lamented. “You can’t eat a relic.”

  Joe took the arrowhead from his pocket and examined it. “Timmy says he found it right near the dead oak at the left of the pond,” he said.

  “Sounds logical,” Frank reasoned. “The tree probably stood there for a couple of centuries. If there ever was an Indian village in this spot, it might have been a favorite place for the men to sit and chip arrowheads.”

  “I’d like to chip my teeth on a nice big steak!” muttered Chet.

  Frank took pity on their suffering friend. “We’re hungry, too. We’ll eat soon, honest. But as long as we’re here, let’s dig around the tree.”

  “All right!” Chet sighed. “But you still haven’t any tools.”

  “We won’t need tools,” Frank assured him. “The hurricane’s done our digging for us.”

  He led the way along the pond toward the Rand property to the upper branches of the fallen oak. They followed the enormous trunk to the huge round hole in the earth, where the tree had stood. The pit, nearly five feet deep at the center, yawned open in front of them.

  Stepping down into it, the boys began to sift the still-damp earth through their fingers.

  “Found something!” Joe called after a few minutes. “Thin and flat, like a dime.”

  “It’s a bird point,” Frank announced after a brief examination. “A small, fine arrowhead for killing birds.