The Mystery on Cobbett's Island (5 page)

“That's a good idea,” agreed Honey. “I'm dead for sleep, too. Come on, everybody. Not even the wind, the rain, or a mysterious letter can keep me awake tonight.”

“Now that you mention it, I'm tired, too,” said Trixie, yawning, “and for once in my life I'm going to go to bed and not think about anything, especially that letter.” She paused and a faraway look came into her eyes. “But it sure makes you wonder,” she went on softly, almost as if to herself. “Doesn't it?”

Honey offered to sleep by herself in one room, while Di and Trixie occupied the twin beds in the other. As they undressed by the light of the single oil lamp, Trixie thought how just a short time ago Honey had been a delicate, frightened little girl who had frequent nightmares, as well as frequent illnesses, and who would
jump at the slightest unfamiliar noise. Now she seemed able to cope with any kind of emergency and showed no concern about the dark or the storm which was still raging outside.

“Nine o'clock and all's well,” Honey called back when she had reached the other room. “I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Good night, Honey. You're certainly the ‘hostess with the mostest' when it comes to storms. Never a dull moment!” answered Trixie.

“What do you suppose it will be like tomorrow?” asked Diana, stifling a yawn.

Upstairs, Jim, Mart, and Brian were discussing the same thing. Brian noticed the wind indicator showed the wind was now turning to the northwest, even though it was blowing as fiercely as ever.

“I read somewhere that when the wind shifts around like that, it means it may bring better weather,” said Jim, looking hopefully out of the window into the stormy night.

“You're undoubtedly right, professor,” said Mart as he flung himself into bed, “for it certainly couldn't produce more inclement atmospheric conditions than have prevailed today.”

“For gosh sakes, Mart, do you always have to talk like a walking encyclopedia?” Brian asked half seriously as he turned down the lamp.

“Not really. I just like to flex my literary muscles.” Mart chuckled. “Who knows, I may write ‘The Great American Novel' some day.”

Jim was the first to wake up the next morning, and he tiptoed to one of the little round windows, opened it, and looked out. The rain had practically stopped, and the wind was certainly less strong than the previous night, but he was astonished at the appearance of the lawns and walks around the house. Branches, big and little, littered the grounds, and he saw that a huge tree had fallen across the driveway.

With some difficulty, he woke Brian and Mart. At first, they were too sleepy to take any interest in Jim's proposal that they get dressed and start cleaning up the yard, but finally Mart's nose caught the smell of frying sausage wafting through the window from the kitchen below, and he was out of bed like a flash.

“Jeepers, why didn't somebody tell me there was sausage for breakfast?” he cried as he quickly started to get dressed.

“Oh, that's not really sausage,” said Jim, pretending to be serious, “that's just a powder that smells like
sausage when sprinkled on the stove. It's my invention for rousing people who sleep through alarm clocks.”

Mart threw a sneaker at him. Jim caught it neatly and jokingly refused to return it until Mart apologized. Mart grabbed his friend and they rolled around on the floor until Brian finally got the shoe away from Jim and returned it to Mart.

“Hey, what goes on up there?” called Trixie from the bottom of the stairs. “You woke us up with all your noise.”

“Oh, Jim was just trying to prove that brawn is superior to brain,” said Mart, “but I was able, through subtle and devious machinations, to quell his enthusiasm and restore order.”

“Another sentence like that and I'll throw something heavier than a sneaker at you,” Jim said as they came downstairs and headed for the dining-room.

It was not as large a room as the one at the Wheelers' house in Sleepyside, but it was most attractive. The furniture was painted white, the chairs had bright coral cushions, and there was a coral and gray rug on the black painted floor. Over the sideboard hung a beautiful old Chinese painting of a heron standing on one leg among tall reeds. In the center of the table was an arrangement of seashells on a straw mat.

Honey rang the little brass bell she found at the head of the table, and Celia, looking very pretty in her trim blue uniform, came in with a tray of orange juice.

“I'm sure you'll be glad to hear the electricity is back on,” Celia said as she served the juice. “The power company crews must have worked all night to restore the service.”

“Well, it looks as though our work is cut out for us. The yard is a mess,” said Jim, “but we told El we'd take care of things, so we'd better get at the job right after breakfast.”

“Oh, it won't take too long if we all pitch in and help, and then we can start working on the let—” Trixie caught herself as she saw Jim shaking his head at her. Celia was just returning from the kitchen with a platter of sausages and a dish of hot corn muffins, and much as the Bob-Whites liked her, they had decided long ago to keep the affairs of the club to themselves whenever they could.

“You were saying we'd have to start writing letters home, so our parents wouldn't be worried?” Brian asked.

“Yes,” said Trixie, glad to be helped out of her predicament by her brother's quick thinking.

“Miss Trask telephoned Mrs. Belden early this morning,” said Celia, “just as soon as the lines were
repaired. She didn't want to wake you. She told Mrs. Belden we were all safe, and asked her to tell Mrs. Lynch, so you don't have to worry. Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler had already left on their trip, but she sent them a telegram.”

By the time they had finished breakfast, the rain had stopped. Bright patches of blue began to show through the scudding clouds. It was still quite cold so they put on sweat shirts and the red B.W.G. jackets Honey had made for each of them and went outside to where the tree had fallen.

“Jeepers, I don't see how we can ever move that without a saw,” Trixie said ruefully, looking at the large uprooted locust tree.

“Maybe there's one in the barn. We've found just about everything else we needed in there. I'll go see,” volunteered Honey helpfully.

“Good idea,” Brian said. “I'll come with you.” He grabbed Honey's hand and they headed for the barn. They were soon back, however, with the only thing they could find—a very small pruning saw.

“This thing is worse than nothing at all,” moaned Honey, dangling the little saw in front of her. “I
do
wish we could do something. Tom won't be able to get a car out of here until that tree's moved.”

At that moment, Trixie interrupted. “Do you hear something over there on the other side of the wall?” she asked, listening intently.

From the sound of branches being pushed aside, it appeared that whoever was there was making his way toward The Moorings. They listened closely, and presently over the top of the wall popped a boy's head. “Hi, strangers. Are you castaways, or are you by any chance from The Moorings?” he asked as he leaped over the wall and landed in their midst.

“We're actually from The Moorings, but at the moment we feel like orphans of the storm,” replied Trixie as the others joined in greeting the newcomer. He was as tall as Jim, with broad shoulders and a strong build. His hair was so blond it looked almost white, and his deep-set eyes were dark blue. He, too, was dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt.

“Gosh, that's great. Not that you're orphans, you understand, but that you're at The Moorings,” he laughed. “I'm Peter Kimball from next door. I was hoping we'd have some life around here this summer. The people who rented your house last year were so old, all they did all day was sit on the porch and rock.”

“Well, there was certainly plenty of excitement around here yesterday,” commented Trixie. “El, the
caretaker, broke his leg just after we got here. We're guests of the Wheelers. Jeepers, I'm getting the cart before the horse as usual,” she said. “I'd better introduce everyone. Peter, this is Honey Wheeler, and Diana Lynch. This is Honey's brother, Jim. I'm Trixie Belden, and these two suspicious-looking characters are my brothers, Mart and Brian.”

“I'll get all those names straight before the summer's over. You
will
be here for the whole summer, won't you?” he asked hopefully.

“I'm afraid not,” answered Honey, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Just ten days. That is, the Bob-Whites will be here for ten days. After that, Jim and I may be coming down occasionally for weekends with our parents.”

She had no sooner said this than she realized she had broken one of the rules of the club in mentioning it to a stranger, but as she looked around, she was relieved to see the others didn't seem to be too concerned about her slip. As they later discovered when talking it over, they had all taken an immediate liking to their new neighbor.

“The Bob-Whites, did you say? That sounds like a club. Am I right?” the boy asked with a smile.

“Well, you are, as a matter of fact,” said Trixie slowly. “Of course, we're supposed to be a secret, or at least a semi-secret club, so if you tell anyone about us, tell them not to tell.”

Peter and the others laughed heartily, and all agreed that with all the members wearing identical jackets, it was rather difficult to keep the club really secret.

“But what does the ‘G' stand for?” asked Peter as he examined the letters B.W.G. that Honey, who sewed beautifully, had cross-stitched on the back of each jacket.

“That's for Glen. We all live near each other on Glen Road in Sleepyside. It was Jim's idea to call ourselves the Bob-Whites of the Glen,” explained Trixie.

“I was in a club called the Owls before we moved down here. Not that we were wise or anything. We just liked to stay up late at night, and spent most of our time thinking up reasons for not going to bed. It was crazy, but we did have a lot of fun. I miss those old birds,” Peter said, smiling reminiscently.

“What do you do around here for excitement,” asked Diana with just a suggestion of a flutter of her long lashes, “besides battling the elements?”

“I can answer that in one word,
sailing
. I'd rather sail than eat,” Peter answered. “As soon as the Yacht Club opens, I'm long gone in my Lightning. Do any of you sail?” he asked.

“Well, Trixie, Honey, and Jim here are pretty good hands with a rowboat,” said Brian, thinking back to the time when his sister had been caught in the flood in Iowa, “but I can't say any of us are actually sailors.”

“I guess we've been too busy riding and fixing up our clubhouse and things to think about boats,” added Honey, “but it must be loads of fun.”

“Did you say you sailed a Lightning?” broke in Mart. “Last Fourth of July there was a big regatta at Nyack, right across the Hudson from us. I read about it in the paper. I could see all the boats from the hill back of our house.”

“I know. That was another fleet. But we'll have a regatta, too, later in the summer. Gee, you should be here. It's great!” exclaimed Peter, his eyes straying toward the nearby bay. “I was going sailing this morning, but I've got to get the mess from the storm cleaned up first. I was just starting when I heard you and decided to investigate.”

“We were going to do some cleaning up here, too, but this tree has us licked,” said Brian, giving the fallen trunk a hard kick.

“I should think so if that's all you have to work with,” said Peter, looking at the pruning saw which Honey was still holding. “What you need is a power saw. I'll get ours,” and he was off over the wall like a deer.

“Gosh, what a great guy!” said Jim.

“And did you notice what gorgeous eyes he has?” sighed Diana.

“I wouldn't say there was anything so special about his eyes,” said Mart. “You squaws always flip for someone just because he has broad shoulders or gorgeous eyes or something. Don't you ever think about brains or character or anything?”

“When it comes to brains and character, we always have you, dear brother,” Trixie flung back at him. “So allow us our little pleasures.” And then becoming serious again, with Peter out of earshot, she continued, “Say, you don't suppose, since he lives on the island, he might be able to help us with the letter, do you?”

“Oh, we weren't going to tell anyone about that,” cautioned Mart. “For gosh sakes, Trix, don't always be so impulsive.”

“I know, Mart,” said Jim, jumping to Trixie's defense, “but he certainly looks like a dependable character if I ever saw one.”

Stung by her brother's criticism, Trixie sat down on the tree trunk, cupping her chin in her hands. After a short pause, she said, “I suppose Mart's right. I know you can't always trust first impressions. Remember what we thought of Dan when we first met him? We
were sure he was a crook because he wore a black jacket and acted sort of anti-social. So it's okay with me to wait until we know Peter better.”