CHAPTER XXNEW SUSPICIONSRealizing that it would not be wise to show too much emotion and surprise in front of Mike Brennan, the young detective controlled his astonishment as much as possible, though it was difficult.“Oh, well,” he murmured, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “maybe Rodney was Pietro’s middle name.”“Maybe, but I don’t believe so,” asserted the proprietor of the Railroad House. “Rodney isn’t a dago’s name at all, and, what’s more, I don’t believe this chap is an Italian at all.”“You don’t?” asked Bob, and then he elaborately yawned and stretched, as though wearied with his night of pleasure, and as though what he was hearing didn’t at all matter to him. But it did—very much.“No, I don’t!” declared Mike Brennan.“Well, that isn’t going to make me lose any more sleep,” declared Bob, again yawning. “I just came to tell him something, but if he’s gone some other time will do.” He gave the impression of elaborate indifference, so much so as even to deceive Mr. Brennan.“There won’t be any other time,” declared the proprietor. “This fellow—Rodney or Pietro or whatever his name is has gone for good.”“Good riddance, I say,” exclaimed Bob, though he didn’t really mean it. “He wasn’t any credit to the town, playing that wheezy music and digging holes in a bramble patch to plant monkey nuts—crazy stuff I call it. But what makes you think he wasn’t an Italian, Mr. Brennan? He looked like one and talked like one, and nobody but a dago would go around with a hand organ and a monkey.”“I don’t know about that, but when this man with the iron hook called the other ‘Rodney,’ your hand organ man turned around and in as good United States’ talk as I ever heard he said: ‘Shut up, you big chump. Do you want to spill the beans?’ And that’s no kind of talk for an Italian who pretends he can’t use English.”“No, maybe not,” laughed Bob, though within he was far from laughing. He saw big events just ahead of him—he saw a glimmering of daylight where there had been darkness, in the queer mystery of Storm Mountain. “Well, was that all?”“Yes, except that they went off together in a sort of huff, mainly, I think, because this man with the hook called this Pietro by a name he hasn’t been using.”“Oh, that man with the hook was a quarrelsome sort of chap,” observed Bob, easily, “he had a perpetual grouch on, I’d say. It isn’t going to worry me. I’m glad my party’s over, or those two might have called and tried to break it up,” he finished with a laugh.“His remark could not have been better calculated to draw a reply from Mike Brennan—a reply that gave Bob just the information he wanted but for which he hesitated to ask. For the hotel man said:“Naw, they weren’t goin’ to any party! They wanted to catch the milk train to get out of town. There was something in the wind, I’m sure of that. And I’m just as glad they got out of my hotel. I keep a respectable place, I do!” growled the big, burly Irishman.He did—when he thought it served his purpose to do so. The police, more than once, had combed Mike Brennan’s place in a search for criminals, and Bob knew this.“So they took the milk train, did they?” he asked.“Yep! Got out of town as soon as they could—hand organ, monkey and all.”“Well, then I can’t give him another job,” remarked the young detective, as if this was the object which had brought him at that early morning hour to the Railroad House. “We’ll have to get a man with a harp next time we want special music,” and he laughed.“A harp is good!” chuckled Mike Brennan. “Sure, I might have a go at that meself! Good-night t’ you!”“Good-night!” echoed Bob, as he jumped into his flivver. “I guess he hasn’t tumbled,” he said to himself as he steered in the direction of the railroad station. “I may have this all to myself yet.”Bob’s idea is clear to you, I suppose. The name Rodney had opened up big possibilities to him. Rodney—Rod—Rod Marbury—the suspect. And yet Mike Brennan either had not heard this name used in connection with the robbery at Storm Mountain, or he did not connect Rodney with Rod. For Rod was the name most often used by the police and in the stories circulated about the queer case.“Rodney doesn’t mean anything to him, except that his Italian guest was masquerading under a false name,” thought Bob to himself. “And that’s so common he isn’t likely to talk about it. If I work fast I may pull this thing off myself without the police coming in on it. But I’ve had a lot of surprises to-night, and I don’t quite see all the ends of this thing. Who was that man with the iron hook? His name was no more Dauber than mine is, though he must have used it more than once or Pietro wouldn’t have recognized it—no, not Pietro—Rodney Marbury—the man who has the brass box!”This thought excited Bob and he stepped on the gas, sending his flivver along at a fast clip. He had had a foot gas pedal attached to his car, enabling him to drive it more easily.“And so he isn’t an Italian at all,” was his further musing.“Queer I never suspected that. Though of course this Rod may be of Italian birth—enough so as to enable him to disguise himself as a dago organ grinder and talk broken English. He did it to perfection, though. But hold on—wait a minute——”Bob was doing some quick thinking and this had its effect on his speed, for he cut along at a lively clip. However, at this hour of the early morning the roads were practically deserted.“If this fellow was Rodney Marbury, the shipmate of Jolly Bill and Hiram Beegle—why didn’t either of them recognize him? They ought to, for they saw him often enough. They had sailed with him—they went on the treasure hunt together. And yet this supposed Italian comes to town, and passes close to Hiram and Jolly Bill, and neither of them says a word. Hiram ought to, if anybody would—for he was assaulted by this chap. And yet this Pietro didn’t hang back any. He associated right with Bill and Hiram. I can’t understand it unless——”Bob ceased his musing for a moment and made a turn around a bad place in the highway. He was on a straight stretch now to the station.“Disguised!” he exclaimed aloud, the word floating out into the cool, night air. “That’s it—he was disguised as a dago, with false hair and a false beard, I’m sure! Queer I never thought of that. He had an awful thick mop of hair and enough beard for a sofa cushion. But I never tumbled. Must have been pretty well made and stuck on. Or he may have let his own hair and beard grow—that would be the best disguise ever! Say, I’ve missed a lot of tricks in this—I’ve got to get busy and redeem myself. But I’m on some sort of a track now, and that’s better than chasing off through the bushes as I’ve been doing.“Speaking of bushes—I wonder if this Rod—or Pietro—really was planting monkey nuts in that bramble patch or—or—jimminity crickets!” fairly shouted Bob in his excitement—“I have it now! He was digging after the treasure! Of course! That’s it. He had the map from the brass box and he was searching over Hank’s land for the treasure. Why didn’t I think of that before? Digging holes to plant monkey nuts! I might have known nothing of that sort could have been done. He was on the search for the treasure, of course. Oh, if I can only catch him!”But as Bob neared the station another thought came to him.“If he had the map, which told exactly where the treasure was buried, why did he have to dig all over the bramble patch on a chance of finding it? A man who buries treasure, and makes a map of it, gives the exact location so he can find it again, or so he can direct those whom he wants to find it.“Now Hank buried the treasure and he made a map of it so Hiram, coming after him, could find it. Hiram isn’t any too well educated so the map would have to be fairly simple. Any one could read it.“Then this Rodney could follow the directions, and if he had the map he could have gone at once to the right spot and dug up the treasure. Instead he digs holes all over the bramble patch. What’s the answer?“He didn’t have the map—of course. Or, if he did, he didn’t know how to read it. The answer is that he didn’t have it and was making a blind hunt.“Then, if he didn’t have the map who has it? Who is the other party most interested?”There was but one answer to this. New suspicions were fast forming in the mind of Bob Dexter—new suspicions which might mean the solving of the Storm Mountain mystery.CHAPTER XXINEW TACTICSWith a grinding and squeaking of the brakes, which was a reminder to Bob that he must get some new lining, the little car came to a stop near the silent and deserted railroad station in Cliffside. Deserted it was save for the presence of the lone agent in the ticket office, as evidenced by a gleam of light shining out into the cold and clammy mists of the night.The milk train had just left, Bob knew. If he had hoped to intercept either the man with the hook or the man with the monkey he was disappointed, but Bob did not show any signs of this.“Hello, Mr. Dawson,” he greeted the agent, who peered wonderingly out at him through the brass bars of his window.“Well, bless my ticket stamp—if it isn’t Bob Dexter!” exclaimed the agent. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour? The milk train’s gone, Bob!”“I know it. Heard her pulling up Storm Mountain.”“And there isn’t another until the accommodation at 5:15.”“Which I’m not going to take, thank goodness.”“Well, then—” there was mild questioning in the agent’s voice.“It’s just a private matter I’m working on, Mr. Dawson,” said Bob, making sure no early morning travelers were sitting on the deserted benches in the dimly-lighted waiting room of the station.“Oh, up to your old tricks, eh, Bob?” The agent knew the reputation the lad was earning for himself.“Something like that—yes.”“Another Jennie Thorp case, Bob?”“Not exactly. But tell me, Mr. Dawson, did a couple of men get on the milk train just now?”“Yes—two men—one with an iron hook in place of a hand.”“Those are the ones. The other was a fellow with a big bunch of whiskers and hair enough to stuff a sofa pillow, and a hand organ and a monkey.”“No, Bob, not exactly.”“Not exactly—what do you mean, Mr. Dawson?”“I mean there wasn’t any man with a hand organ and a monkey.”“Oh, well, he could have left that behind, though what the poor monk will do I don’t know. Anyhow he had a lot of hair and whiskers, didn’t he?”“No, Bob,” answered the agent, “he didn’t. You got that one man right—he had a hook all right. But the other was smooth-shaved and his hair wasn’t any longer than mine.”Bob was staggered for a minute. Then a light broke in on him.“Of course!” he cried. “He could have taken off the false beard and wig, or have stopped long enough, somewhere, to get a hair cut and a shave.”“He had a shave, Bob, I’ll testify to that. I was close to him when he bought the tickets.”“Bought tickets, did he? Where to, Mr. Dawson?”“Perry Junction.”“Um, down where they can catch the fast trains. But there aren’t so many trains at this time of the morning. Maybe I can nab them yet.”“What are you going to do, Bob?” asked Mr. Dawson, as the lad started from the station.“I’m going to take the short cut to Perry Junction. I can beat the milk, for it’s got half a dozen stops between here and there to pick up cans. I want to see these fellows.”“Better not take any chances with them, Bob,” advised Mr. Dawson. “They didn’t look like very nice customers, especially that man with the iron hook. If he made a dig at you with that—zowie, boy!” The agent drew in his breath sharply.“Don’t worry—I’m not going to take any chances, Mr. Dawson. I’m going to stop and pick up an officer at headquarters.”“I think that’s wise. I didn’t like the looks of these chaps from the time they came in. I was suspicious of them, and I thought I might be in for a hold-up, until I remembered that I didn’t have enough money on hand to make it worth while. But they were civil enough.”“And you say the man with the smooth face bought the tickets?”“Yes—two, for Ferry Junction.”“Did he talk like an Italian?”“No, Bob, I can’t say he did. Talked like as American, as far as I could judge.”“Then he must have dropped his pretended Italian jargon along with his hair and whiskers,” thought the young detective. “Well, things are beginning to work out—though what the end will be I can’t tell.” Aloud, to the agent, he said:“Well, I guess I’ll be getting along if I’m going to beat the milk, though that won’t be so hard. She’s got a bad grade ahead of her up Storm Mountain. Much obliged for your information, Mr. Dawson.”“Don’t mention it, Bob. Hope you make out all right with your case.”“Thanks, I hope I do.”“I reckon, before long, you’ll be on the police force of some big city, Bob.”“No such luck as that, Mr. Dawson. But that’s what I’m working for. Good-night.”“Good-morning, you mean!” chuckled Mr. Dawson as he smiled at the lad. “It’ll soon be daylight.”So it will. Well, I’ve got to get a hustle on.The young detective found Constable Tarton on night duty at police headquarters. Mr. Tarton had considerable respect for Bob, for he knew of the outcome of the case of the Golden Eagle. In fact Caleb would rather work with Bob than with Chief Miles Duncan.So it was with eagerness that Mr. Tarton agreed to accompany the lad in the flivver to Perry Junction, there, if need arose, to make an arrest on suspicion.“I’ll just wake up Sim Nettlebury, and let him take charge of matters,” the constable said with a chuckle. “Not that anything is likely to happen in Cliffside at this hour of the morning, but I got to follow regulations. Sim won’t like it, though, being woke up.”Sim didn’t, as was evident from his grumbles and growls as the night constable aroused him in the room over the main office of police headquarters. A certain proportion of the limited police force of Cliffside slept on the premises, taking turns the different nights.“Now I’m ready to go with you, Bob,” announced Mr. Tarton, as the half-awake Sim, rubbing his eyes, tried to find a comfortable place behind the desk with its green-shaded lamp.Bob Dexter had thought out his plan carefully, and yet he was not at all sure of the outcome. The identity of Rod Marbury, the man suspected of assaulting Hiram and stealing the brass-bound box, with Pietro Margolis was a surprise to the young detective. How the man with the iron hook fitted into the mystery Bob could not yet fathom.But that something had occurred between the two to make Rod leave off his disguise, and hurry out of town was evident.“He fooled Hiram and he fooled Jolly Bill,” thought Bob. “The question is now can he fool me. I was taken in by his monkey nuts, but from now on I’ll be on my guard. And yet I don’t believe he took the brass box. But he may know who did. The man with the iron hook couldn’t have—I’m sure. Hiram never mentioned such a character, and he would have done so, I’m sure, if there had been any such character to mention. You don’t meet a man with an iron hook every day. Well, it may be working out—this Storm Mountain mystery—but it’s doing so in a queer way.”“All set, Bob,” said the constable, as he got in the flivver.“Let’s go!” was the grim rejoinder.The roads were clear of traffic, save for an occasional farmer bringing to town, for the early market, a load of produce. And, as Bob had said, he could take a short cut, intercepting the milk train, almost before it reached Perry Junction. The train, as the lad had stated, would have to make a number of stops to pick up cans of milk which the dairymen had left at the different stations along the route.“Those fellows must have been in a desperate hurry, Bob, to take the milk train,” said the constable, as they jolted along side by side in the flivver.“Hurry—on the milk?” laughed Bob.“Well, I mean in a hurry to get out of town. Of course the train is a slow-poke, but they could get out of Cliffside on her, and that’s what they wanted, maybe.”“That’s so,” agreed Bob. “I didn’t think of that”“Think of what?” asked Caleb Tarton.“Oh—nothing much. Hold fast now, here’s a bit of rough road.”It was rough—so much so that at the speed which Bob drove all the constable could do was to hold on. And he didn’t dare open his mouth to ask questions for fear of biting off his tongue.Which, perhaps, was Bob’s object. I’m not saying it was, but it would have been a good way to insure silence.Then they got onto a smooth, concrete highway, leading directly to Perry Junction. A faint light was showing, now, in the east.“Soon be sun-up, Bob,” remarked Mr. Tarton.“Yep. It’s been a long night, I’ll say. I haven’t been to bed yet”“You haven’t?”“No. I ran off a party. Then I ran onto this clew and I’ve been busy on it ever since.”“Well, we’ll soon know what’s what, Bob. There’s the station right ahead of us.”“Yes, and here comes the milk,” added Bob, as a shrill whistle cut the keen, morning air.“We’re just about in time,” remarked the constable.Perry Junction was not a station of any importance save that certain fast trains stopped there to pick up passengers from other points along the line. And it was evidently the object of the two men to take advantage of this. Bob had made his plans well, and they would have worked out admirably save for one thing.The two men he was after weren’t on the train. A simple thing, but it loomed big.Bob and the constable leaped from their flivver as the milk train drew to a screeching stop, and the two hid themselves behind a corner of the station. It was now light enough so that they could see who got off the milk train. But the man with the iron hook and the man who had been masquerading as an organ grinder, were not among the passengers that alighted.“Looks like they give us the slip, Bob,” observed Mr. Tarton.“Yes, it does. But they may be on there yet. This isn’t the end of the milk run. I’ll ask the conductor.”The latter was walking up and down the platform waiting for the completion of loading on more rattling cans of milk. He knew Bob, and greeted him.“Man with an iron hook?” questioned the ticket puncher. “Yes, he got on at Cliffside.”“Was there another man with him—a smooth-shaved man?”“Yes, Bob, there was. I didn’t have many passengers—we seldom do this time of year, with the excursion business over. But I remember those two.”“They had tickets for Perry Junction, didn’t they?”“Yes, now I recall it, they did.”“But they aren’t here.”“No, Bob, they got off somewhere between Tottenville and Andover. I noticed them at Tottenville, but I didn’t see them at Andover.”“But there isn’t a station between those two places.”“No station, Bob, but we stop at three white posts to pick up milk. Farm-stations we call them—not regular stops for any except my train. These fellows could have gotten off anywhere along there, and they probably did.”“Shucks!” ejaculated Bob. “That’s it! I might have known they wouldn’t give themselves away by coming to the place for which they have tickets. They got off at some place where they wouldn’t be noticed. Well, I guess we might as well go back,” he told the constable.“How about searching the train?” asked the latter eagerly. “They might be concealed somewhere on board, Bob.”“No, I don’t think so,” said the conductor. “They just dropped off at one of the white post stops between Tottenville and Andover. Why, was there anything wrong about them?”“Suspicions, mostly, that’s all,” said Bob.The last can rattled aboard, the conductor gave the signal, the engineer gave two toots to the whistle and the milk train pulled away from Perry Junction.“Guess they had you barkin’ up the wrong tree, didn’t they, Bob?” asked the constable as they rode on back to Cliffside.“In a way, yes. But, after all, maybe it’s just as well it turned out like this.”“Just as well, Bob? Why, don’t you want to help find the rascal that robbed Hiram?”“Yes, but I don’t believe either of these fellows did.”“Who did then?”“That’s what I’m going to find out.”It was with this end in view that, two days later, Bob paid a visit to the Mansion House where Jolly Bill Hickey was still staying. Bob had a long talk with Nelson Beel, the proprietor.“Certainly, Bob, I’ll let you do it,” was the permission given. “But I don’t like any disturbance about my place.”“There won’t be any, Mr. Beel, I promise you that. It will all be done very quietly.”“All right, Bob, go to it.”Thereupon the young detective began some new tactics.CHAPTER XXIITHE BRASS BOXNearly every town, or small city has, or had at one time, a large hotel known as the “Mansion House.” In this Cliffside was no exception, and the chief hostelry bore that name. It was a big, rambling, old-fashioned structure and, in its day, had housed many a “gay and festive scene,” to quote the CliffsideWeekly Bannerwhich once ran a series of stories about famous men and places in the community.However, though the Mansion House may once have had such a distinction as being a place (one of several thousand) where George Washington stayed overnight, now were its glories departed, and it was but an ordinary hotel. Some old residents, who had given up their homes, lived there the year around. It was the stopping place of such traveling men, or drummers, who occasionally came to the place, and the annual “assembly ball” was held there.Being an old-fashioned hotel it had many connecting and adjoining rooms, with doors between, and transoms of glass over the said doors. It was a “family” hotel, to use the expression Mr. Beel often applied to his place.Consequently it wasn’t difficult for Bob Dexter to secure a place of observation near the room where Jolly Bill Hickey had elected to stay for a time.“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Bill had said to Mr. Beel, when Bob drove him to the place the morning of the discovery of the crime on Storm Mountain.“Stay as long as you like—we’ll try and make you welcome!” Mr. Beel had said with the bluff heartiness that characterized him when greeting a new guest.“And you’re sure no one will object to my wooden leg?” asked Jolly Bill.“Huh! I’d like to see ’em!” snapped out the proprietor. “You got just as good a right to have a wooden leg as another man has to have two of flesh and blood, I reckon.”“Thanks. I’ll do my best not to make any trouble.”So had Jolly Bill taken up his residence, and his reference to having a “few shots left in the locker” to pay his way was amply borne out, for he met his weekly bills with great regularity.“There’s a little cubbyhole of a room next to his,” Mr. Beel had said when Bob broached his new tactics. “It used to be used to store drummers’ trunks in, when Cliffside did a bigger business than it does now. You can get in there and look over the transom if you like.”“Well, I’ll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate. But don’t let it be known that I’m there.”“I won’t, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I’ll furnish you with a key. And you’ll have a good excuse in being here.”“Yes—arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys’ Club.”For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee, and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place, it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his presence in the hotel.Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room, adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind. Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn’t. It was all so vague—merely a suspicion.“What’s got into old Bob lately?” asked Harry of Ned, a few days after the futile chase of the milk train.“Oh, he’s working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on that.”“Has he said anything to you about it?”“Nothing special. Bob never does when he’s following close on a clew. But he said he might not see us for a few days.”“Well, I guess we’d just better let him alone.”“Sure. He won’t thank us for butting in, and if he wants any help he knows we’ll give it to him.”“Sure.”Thereupon the two chums had gone off nutting again, leaving Bob Dexter to his own devices.Taking advantage of the fact that there were few late arrivals in the Mansion House, which, unlike the Railroad hotel, did not keep open all night, Bob made his entry as an unregistered guest in his little room about two o’clock one morning. Mr. Beel was the only one around at the time.“Good luck to you, Bob,” the proprietor had said, as he watched the lad enter his room quietly. “He’s in there,” and he motioned to the apartment of Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.Bob’s first activity, after settling himself, was to mount on a chair and examine, as best he could in the feeble light of one electric bulb in his room, the transom over the door between his apartment and that of Jolly Bill.At one time these two rooms had formed part of a suite, but when there was little call except for single rooms, the transom had been closed and painted black to prevent surreptitious views from one room to the other.“And the paint’s on my side,” exclaimed Bob. “That makes it easier. I’ll scrape a peep-hole in the morning, after Jolly Bill goes out.”Bob was concentrating his efforts and suspicions on this wooden-legged sailor now, since all efforts to trace the man with the iron hook, and his companion, had failed.Bob did not sleep very well the remainder of that night. His mind was too filled with the possibilities that might follow his action. But toward morning he fell asleep, and the early winter sun was quite high when he opened his eyes.“Gosh,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I ought to have been up long ago. Wonder if he’s gone out?”He listened but could hear no sound from the next room.“I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep,” mused Bob, rather chagrined at himself. “Maybe he’s flown the coop and gone out on the milk train.”But he was reassured, a little later, by hearing the voice of Jolly Bill himself. The voice followed a knock on his door—evidently a summons to arise—for there were no room telephones in the Mansion House. A chambermaid or bell boy had to come up and knock on the doors of guests to arouse them in case they requested such attention.“All right I All right!” sounded the voice of the man with the wooden leg. “All right! I’m getting up! Got lots to do to-day!”This was rather amusing, from the fact that since he had arrived in Cliffside Jolly Bill had done nothing in the line of work—unless digging worms to go fishing could be so called.“All right! I’m on the job, too!” said Bob, silently to himself. Quickly he mounted to a chair which raised him so that he could look through the transom over his door. He moved silently. He did not want Bill to know, if it could be avoided, that there was a guest in the next room.With the point of a knife blade, Bob removed a little of the black paint on his side of the transom. It gave him a peep-hole and he applied his eye to it.Rather a mean and sneaking business, this of spying through peep-holes, the lad thought. The only consolation was that he was going through it in a good cause—his desire to bring criminals to justice and aid Hiram Beegle.To Bob’s delight he found that he had a good view of the interior of Jolly Bill’s room, and he had sight of that individual himself, sitting on the edge of his bed and vigorously stretching himself as a preliminary to his morning ablutions.Bill’s wooden leg was unstrapped from the stump, and lay on a chair near him, as did the heavy cane he used to balance himself, for he was a stout man.“It couldn’t be better—if it works out the way I think it will,” mused the lad. Eagerly and anxiously he watched now for the next move on the part of the old sailor. For it was on this move that much might depend.Having stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes to remove therefrom as much as possible of the “sleep,” by a process of dry washing, Jolly Bill prepared for his day’s activities by reaching out for his wooden leg.“Now,” whispered Bob to himself, as he stood gazing through his peep-hole in the painted transom, “am I right or am I wrong? It won’t take long to tell if things work out the way I expect they will. Steady now!” he told himself.Jolly Bill pulled his wooden leg toward him as he sat on the bed. He must strap it on before he could begin stumping about to begin his day of “work,” whatever that mysterious occupation was.And then, as Bob watched, the old sailor, with a look toward the window, to make sure the shades were pulled down, plunged his hand into the interior of his wooden leg.This artificial limb, like many of its kind, was hollow to make it lighter. There was quite a cavity within.Another look toward the curtained window, but never a glance did Jolly Bill bestow on the painted transom over the door between his room and the cubbyhole. Why should he look there? No one had occupied it since he had been in the Mansion House. And it was unoccupied when Bill went to bed last night. He had made sure of that as he always did. But Bob had come in since.And then, as the young detective peered through his peep-hole, he saw a sight which thrilled him.For, from the hollow interior of his wooden leg, Jolly Bill pulled out the brass-bound box that had been so mysteriously stolen from the strong room of Hiram Beegle—the strong room which was locked in such a queer way, with the key inside and the criminal outside.Jolly Bill held up the brass box, and smiled as he observed it.“I guess,” he murmured, “I guess it’s about time I had another go at you, to see if I can get at what you mean. For blessed if I’ve been able to make head or tail of you yet! Not head or tail!”And, sitting on the bed, his wooden leg beside him, Jolly Bill Hickey began fumbling with the brass box.The eyes of Bob Dexter shone eagerly.CHAPTER XXIIISOLVING A PUZZLEMany a detective, amateur or professional, having seen what Bob Dexter saw through the scratched hole in the painted transom, would have rushed in and demanded the box which held the secret of the buried treasure. But Bob knew that his case was only half completed when he discovered who had the box.Up to within a few days ago he had suspected the mysterious and missing Rod Marbury. But with the linking up of that character with the organ grinder, and the departure of the latter with the hook-armed man, Bob had to cast some new theories.Now he had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes, but still he was not ready to spring the trap. There were many things yet to be established.True, there was the brass box, and as Bill, with his wooden leg not yet strapped to his stump sat looking at it on the edge of his bed, Bob could not but believe that it was the treasure box willed to Hiram Beegle, and stolen from that old sailor.The half-whispered, exulting words of Jolly Bill himself as he eagerly eyed the box proved it to be the one sought. But Bill’s words also indicated that there was still some mystery connected with the casket—some secret about it that needed solving.For the wooden-legged man had said:“I’ve not been able to make head or tail of you—not head or tail!”That indicated a failure to ascertain the hiding place of the gold buried by Hank Denby.“But Bill’s had a try for it,” mused Bob as he watched the man. “That digging of fish worms was only a bluff. He was digging to see if the treasure might not be buried on Hiram’s place.“And that story of monkey nuts—that was bluff, too. The Italian, or whatever Rod is, was digging for the treasure. But he didn’t have whatever is in the box to guide him. Now I wonder what’s in that box?”Bob did not have to wait long in wonder, for the wooden-legged man, after fumbling with what seemed to be a complicated lock or catch, opened the brass-bound box, and took out a folded paper. That was all there was in the box it seemed, bearing out Hiram’s story to the effect that Hank had left him directions for finding the treasure—a most peculiar proceeding. But then the whole story of digging up the treasure on the South Sea island was peculiar—like a dream, Bob thought. Sometimes he found himself doubting the whole yarn.But there was a paper in the brass box, that was certain, and Jolly Bill had gone to considerable trouble, not to say risk, in securing it. He had played his cards well, not to have been suspected by Hiram, Bob thought.“But if Bill, smart as he is, can’t make head or tail of that paper, which tells where the treasure is buried, how can Hiram do so?” mused Bob. “He hasn’t as much education as Bill has. They were all common sailors, though Hank may have been the best educated—he probably was. But he would know Hiram couldn’t solve any complicated directions for digging up buried treasure, so he would have to leave him simple rules to follow.“Now if Bill can’t make head or tail of it, how could Hiram be expected to?” That was bothering Bob now more than he liked to admit. But he was far from giving up the quest. He must watch Bill.The one-legged sailor, unconscious that he was being observed in his “undress uniform,” was eagerly looking over the paper. He held it right-side up, and upside down. He turned it this way and that, and held it up to the light. But all to no purpose as indicated by his slowly shaking head.“No, I can’t make head or tail of you, and that’s a fact,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll have to get help on this. But I don’t want to if I don’t have to. If I could only get Hiram to talk he might give me the lead I want. I’ll have another go at Hiram, I guess. He doesn’t suspect anything yet.”Bill returned the paper to the little casket, closed the lid with a snap and then put the brass box back in the interior of his wooden leg. Having done this Bill proceeded to get dressed for the day.And Bob Dexter prepared to make so quiet an exit from the Mansion House that the old sailor would not know he had been there. To this end Bob left before Bill was downstairs, slipping out the back way as arranged with Mr. Beel.In first planning his work looking to the discovery of the thief who had taken Hiram’s box, Bob Dexter had in mind a very spectacular bit of play. It was based on some of the stories of celebrated detectives—real or imagined sleuths.How Bob had come, by a process of elimination, to suspect that Jolly Bill was the thief, I think you can reason out for yourselves. If not I shall disclose it to you. Sufficient now to say that Bob did suspect Jolly Bill, and with good reason, though there was one big gap in the sequence of steps leading to the crime. And that was to learn how the key had been put back in the room where the unconscious Hiram lay. But of that more later.As I say, Bob had in mind a daring bit of work as soon as he discovered for a fact that Bill had the box. This was nothing more or less than a false alarm of fire at the Mansion House. Bob reasoned that if the cry of fire were to be shouted Bill, and all the other guests, would at once rush to save that which they considered most valuable. And that if Bill kept the brass box locked somewhere in his room, he would rush to get it out, Bob fully believed.However the discovery that the sailor kept the box in what, to him, was the best hiding place in the world, namely his wooden leg, made it unnecessary for Bob to go to the length he had planned.Bill, himself, had given away the secret. The box was always with him. It was only necessary to take off his wooden leg and the secret of the treasure would be laid bare, so to speak.“That is I’ll get the directions for finding the gold,” mused Bob. “But whether I can make any sense of the directions is another matter. However, well have a try.”Bob’s first act, after emerging from the hotel by the back way, was to go home and get a good breakfast. He was just in time to eat with his uncle who was preparing to leave for his office.“Well, Bob, you’re quite a stranger,” said Mr. Dexter, smiling.“Yes,” admitted the lad. “But I’m going to be at home more, from now on.”“I do hope so,” sighed his aunt. “I’m so worried about you, Bob! You aren’t going to get into danger, are you?”“No, indeed, Aunt Hannah.”“Well, I know one thing he’s going to get into next week,” said Uncle Joel dryly.“What’s that?” asked Bob.“School,” was the laconic reply. “School opens next week.”“I shan’t be sorry,” replied Bob. “I’ll clean up this case and be glad to get back to my books. There’s a lot of fun at school.”But there yet remained considerable work to be done on the Storm Mountain mystery and the solving of the secret of the log cabin. To this end the young detective visited Hiram Beegle in the lonely shack that morning. To the old sailor Bob told certain things, and certain things he didn’t tell him. But what he said was enough to cause Hiram to sit down and write Jolly Bill a letter, a letter worded as Bob suggested.Whether it was this letter, or because he wanted to see his old messmate is not certain, but, at any rate, Jolly Bill Hickey called at the log cabin next day. And Bob Dexter was there.So, also, were Bob’s chums, Ned and Harry. None of the lads, however, was in evidence, being in fact, concealed in the strong room—that same room which had been so mysteriously locked after the theft of the brass box.Bob had given up, for the time being, any attempt to solve the mystery of the key. He found it better to concentrate on one thing at a time, and the principal matter was to get Hiram into possession of the treasure that was rightfully his.“What do you want us to do, Bob?” asked Ned as, with Harry, he sat in the strong room, waiting the development of the plot.“Well, well have to be guided pretty much by circumstances,” Bob answered. “Jolly Bill is coming here, and Hiram is going to talk to him. Bill doesn’t know we’re here. At least I hope he doesn’t. Perhaps you’d just better leave it to me. Follow me when I go out and back me up.”“Sure well do that,” promised Harry.So they waited and, in due time, Bill came stumping up the path. He had engaged a taxicab, or one of the decrepit autos in Cliffside which passed for such, and so rode up to the log cabin in style. At Bob’s suggestion, Hiram had offered to pay for the taxi, in order to insure Bill’s presence.“Well, here I am, old timer! Here’s your old friend Jolly Bill Hickey! Here’s your old messmate!” greeted the one-legged man as he clapped Hiram heartily on the shoulder. “We must stick together, messmate. You’ve had hard luck and I’ve had hard luck. Now well stick together.”“He’ll stick Hiram all right, if he gets the chance,” whispered Ned.“Quiet,” urged Bob, who was listening at the keyhole of the strong room, the door of which was closed, but not locked.After some general conversation, during which Bill emphasized his friendship for Hiram, the one-legged man asked:“Haven’t you any idea, Hiram, where old Hank would be likely to bury that treasure of his? If you had you could go dig it up, you know, without waiting to find the box with the map in. If you had an idea, you know, I could help you dig. I only got one leg, that’s true, but I can dig. Look how I dug the fish worms.”“Yes, you did dig worms, Bill,” admitted Hiram gently. “And I don’t see how you did it. It must have hurt your leg—I mean the stump where your wooden leg is fastened on. Why don’t you take off your wooden leg, Bill, and rest yourself. Come on, take off your wooden leg.”“What’s that!” cried Bill, with more emphasis than the simple request seemed to call for. “Take off my leg? I guess not! I only take it off when I go to bed.”“Well, take it off now, and go to bed,” urged Hiram. He was following a line of talk suggested by Bob, though the latter had not disclosed the reason therefor.“What—take off my wooden leg and go to bed—in the morning?” cried Bill. “You must be crazy, Hiram! What’s gotten into you?”“I want to see you take off that wooden leg, Bill,” was the mild reply. “I’d like to see that wooden leg off you.”“Well, you aren’t going to see it off me!” snapped out Jolly Bill, who was anything but that now. “I’m not going to take off my wooden leg to please any one! There’s something wrong with you, Hiram. I can tell that.”His voice was suspicious. Bob looked toward his silent chums. The time to act was approaching.“You won’t take off your wooden leg, Bill?” asked Hiram.“Not for anybody—not until I go to bed!” declared the other vigorously.“Well, then, it’s time you went to bed!” cried Bob, as he swung open the door and walked out into the main room of the log cabin, closely followed by Ned and Harry.“Wha—what—what’s the meaning of this?” cried Jolly Bill, when he could get his breath. “What—why, it’s my friend Bob!” he cried, with seeming pleasure as he arose and stumped forward with extended hands. “My old friend Bob. Shake with Jolly Bill!”“We’ll shake your leg—that’s all we’ll shake!” cried Ned, taking his cue from what Bob had said.“And you might as well go to bed now,” added Harry.Jolly Bill was standing near a couch, and suddenly, with a gentle push, Harry sent him backward so that he fell, full length on this improvised bed.So sudden was the push, gentle as it was, that it took away the breath of Jolly Bill. He gasped and spluttered on the couch, trying in vain to raise his head, for Ned was holding him down. And as a horse cannot rise if you hold his head down, so, neither, can a man, and Bill was in just this situation.“Let me up, you young rascals! Let me up! I’ll have the law on you for this! I’ll call the police! What do you mean? Hiram, what’s the game? You asked me here to talk about the treasure—you said you might divide it, and now—stop! stop!” yelled Jolly Bill.And well might he yell “stop!” for he felt many hands fumbling at his wooden leg. Hands were unbuckling the straps that held the wooden limbs to his stump. And Hiram’s hands were among these.“Stop! Stop!” angrily cried Bill. “What are you doing to me?”“Taking off your leg—that’s all,” answered Bob quietly as he finally pulled the wooden member away from its owner. “But it isn’t going to hurt you, Jolly Bill. This is all we want—now you may have your leg back again!”As Bob spoke he pulled from the hollow interior of the wooden limb the brass-bound box. At the sight of it Hiram raised a cry of delight.“That’s mine! That’s mine!” he shouted. “It was stolen from me! It holds the secret of the buried treasure. And you had it all the while, Bill Hickey. You tried to rob me! Give me that box! Scoundrel!”Bob, with a smile, passed it over. Nor could he cease smiling at the look of chagrin in the face of Jolly Bill Hickey. That individual seemed in a daze as he fumbled at his wooden leg and looked within the hollow of it.“Empty! Gone!” he gasped.“Yes, Bill, the jig is up for you,” remarked Bob. “You had your try at solving the puzzle, but you couldn’t make head or tail of it, could you? Not head or tail!”At hearing repeated to him the very words he had used in reference to the brass box, Bill turned pale.“Wha—what’s it all about? Who are you, anyhow?” he gasped and there was a look of fear on his face as he gazed at Bob.“He’s just an amateur detective, that’s all,” chuckled Harry.“But I guess he’s solved this mystery,” added Ned.“No, not quite all,” admitted Bob with a smile. “We have yet to find the treasure. Bill had a try at it, but he couldn’t locate it. Now we’ve got to solve the puzzle. Do you mind opening that box, Mr. Beegle? It isn’t difficult. The difficulty lies inside, I think.“And don’t try any of your tricks, Bill Hickey,” he sternly warned the wooden-legged sailor, who was still holding his artificial limb with a look of wonder on his face. “If things turn out all right, and Hiram doesn’t want to make a complaint against you, we’ll let you stump off. But if you cut up rough—we’ll have the police here in no time.”“I’m not going to cut up rough,” said Bill, humbly enough, “But you won’t make anything out of that,” he added, as Hiram drew a folded paper from the brass box. “I tried. I might as well admit it, for you seem to know all about it,” he went on. “I tried but I couldn’t make head or tail of it. There’s no sense to it. I don’t believe there is any treasure. I believe Hank used it all up himself and then left this silly paper to tease you, Hiram. It’s a lot of bosh!”And when Bob Dexter and his chums glanced at the paper they were inclined to agree with Jolly Bill, who now was far from what his name indicated.For written in a plain, legible hand in black ink on what seemed to be a bit of old parchment, was this strange message:It will not do to dignify, or, let us say, to magnify a sun spot. For ten million years thousands of feet have, to give them their due, tried to travel east or west, and have not found ten of these spots. The sunny south of the Red Sea makes a gateway that entices many away from their post of duty. In summer cows eat buttercups and they fatten up a lot.“Whew!” ejaculated Ned as he read this. “What does it mean?”“Reads like some of the stuff we have to translate in High School,” added Harry.“It’s a puzzle, that’s what it is,” said Bob. “But we’ll have to solve it. Now, Mr. Beegle——”“Look out—there he goes!” cried the sailor, as he jumped toward the door. But he was too late to intercept Bill Hickey who, having strapped on his wooden leg, was now pegging away at top speed down the trail from Storm Mountain.
CHAPTER XX
NEW SUSPICIONS
Realizing that it would not be wise to show too much emotion and surprise in front of Mike Brennan, the young detective controlled his astonishment as much as possible, though it was difficult.
“Oh, well,” he murmured, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “maybe Rodney was Pietro’s middle name.”
“Maybe, but I don’t believe so,” asserted the proprietor of the Railroad House. “Rodney isn’t a dago’s name at all, and, what’s more, I don’t believe this chap is an Italian at all.”
“You don’t?” asked Bob, and then he elaborately yawned and stretched, as though wearied with his night of pleasure, and as though what he was hearing didn’t at all matter to him. But it did—very much.
“No, I don’t!” declared Mike Brennan.
“Well, that isn’t going to make me lose any more sleep,” declared Bob, again yawning. “I just came to tell him something, but if he’s gone some other time will do.” He gave the impression of elaborate indifference, so much so as even to deceive Mr. Brennan.
“There won’t be any other time,” declared the proprietor. “This fellow—Rodney or Pietro or whatever his name is has gone for good.”
“Good riddance, I say,” exclaimed Bob, though he didn’t really mean it. “He wasn’t any credit to the town, playing that wheezy music and digging holes in a bramble patch to plant monkey nuts—crazy stuff I call it. But what makes you think he wasn’t an Italian, Mr. Brennan? He looked like one and talked like one, and nobody but a dago would go around with a hand organ and a monkey.”
“I don’t know about that, but when this man with the iron hook called the other ‘Rodney,’ your hand organ man turned around and in as good United States’ talk as I ever heard he said: ‘Shut up, you big chump. Do you want to spill the beans?’ And that’s no kind of talk for an Italian who pretends he can’t use English.”
“No, maybe not,” laughed Bob, though within he was far from laughing. He saw big events just ahead of him—he saw a glimmering of daylight where there had been darkness, in the queer mystery of Storm Mountain. “Well, was that all?”
“Yes, except that they went off together in a sort of huff, mainly, I think, because this man with the hook called this Pietro by a name he hasn’t been using.”
“Oh, that man with the hook was a quarrelsome sort of chap,” observed Bob, easily, “he had a perpetual grouch on, I’d say. It isn’t going to worry me. I’m glad my party’s over, or those two might have called and tried to break it up,” he finished with a laugh.
“His remark could not have been better calculated to draw a reply from Mike Brennan—a reply that gave Bob just the information he wanted but for which he hesitated to ask. For the hotel man said:
“Naw, they weren’t goin’ to any party! They wanted to catch the milk train to get out of town. There was something in the wind, I’m sure of that. And I’m just as glad they got out of my hotel. I keep a respectable place, I do!” growled the big, burly Irishman.
He did—when he thought it served his purpose to do so. The police, more than once, had combed Mike Brennan’s place in a search for criminals, and Bob knew this.
“So they took the milk train, did they?” he asked.
“Yep! Got out of town as soon as they could—hand organ, monkey and all.”
“Well, then I can’t give him another job,” remarked the young detective, as if this was the object which had brought him at that early morning hour to the Railroad House. “We’ll have to get a man with a harp next time we want special music,” and he laughed.
“A harp is good!” chuckled Mike Brennan. “Sure, I might have a go at that meself! Good-night t’ you!”
“Good-night!” echoed Bob, as he jumped into his flivver. “I guess he hasn’t tumbled,” he said to himself as he steered in the direction of the railroad station. “I may have this all to myself yet.”
Bob’s idea is clear to you, I suppose. The name Rodney had opened up big possibilities to him. Rodney—Rod—Rod Marbury—the suspect. And yet Mike Brennan either had not heard this name used in connection with the robbery at Storm Mountain, or he did not connect Rodney with Rod. For Rod was the name most often used by the police and in the stories circulated about the queer case.
“Rodney doesn’t mean anything to him, except that his Italian guest was masquerading under a false name,” thought Bob to himself. “And that’s so common he isn’t likely to talk about it. If I work fast I may pull this thing off myself without the police coming in on it. But I’ve had a lot of surprises to-night, and I don’t quite see all the ends of this thing. Who was that man with the iron hook? His name was no more Dauber than mine is, though he must have used it more than once or Pietro wouldn’t have recognized it—no, not Pietro—Rodney Marbury—the man who has the brass box!”
This thought excited Bob and he stepped on the gas, sending his flivver along at a fast clip. He had had a foot gas pedal attached to his car, enabling him to drive it more easily.
“And so he isn’t an Italian at all,” was his further musing.
“Queer I never suspected that. Though of course this Rod may be of Italian birth—enough so as to enable him to disguise himself as a dago organ grinder and talk broken English. He did it to perfection, though. But hold on—wait a minute——”
Bob was doing some quick thinking and this had its effect on his speed, for he cut along at a lively clip. However, at this hour of the early morning the roads were practically deserted.
“If this fellow was Rodney Marbury, the shipmate of Jolly Bill and Hiram Beegle—why didn’t either of them recognize him? They ought to, for they saw him often enough. They had sailed with him—they went on the treasure hunt together. And yet this supposed Italian comes to town, and passes close to Hiram and Jolly Bill, and neither of them says a word. Hiram ought to, if anybody would—for he was assaulted by this chap. And yet this Pietro didn’t hang back any. He associated right with Bill and Hiram. I can’t understand it unless——”
Bob ceased his musing for a moment and made a turn around a bad place in the highway. He was on a straight stretch now to the station.
“Disguised!” he exclaimed aloud, the word floating out into the cool, night air. “That’s it—he was disguised as a dago, with false hair and a false beard, I’m sure! Queer I never thought of that. He had an awful thick mop of hair and enough beard for a sofa cushion. But I never tumbled. Must have been pretty well made and stuck on. Or he may have let his own hair and beard grow—that would be the best disguise ever! Say, I’ve missed a lot of tricks in this—I’ve got to get busy and redeem myself. But I’m on some sort of a track now, and that’s better than chasing off through the bushes as I’ve been doing.
“Speaking of bushes—I wonder if this Rod—or Pietro—really was planting monkey nuts in that bramble patch or—or—jimminity crickets!” fairly shouted Bob in his excitement—“I have it now! He was digging after the treasure! Of course! That’s it. He had the map from the brass box and he was searching over Hank’s land for the treasure. Why didn’t I think of that before? Digging holes to plant monkey nuts! I might have known nothing of that sort could have been done. He was on the search for the treasure, of course. Oh, if I can only catch him!”
But as Bob neared the station another thought came to him.
“If he had the map, which told exactly where the treasure was buried, why did he have to dig all over the bramble patch on a chance of finding it? A man who buries treasure, and makes a map of it, gives the exact location so he can find it again, or so he can direct those whom he wants to find it.
“Now Hank buried the treasure and he made a map of it so Hiram, coming after him, could find it. Hiram isn’t any too well educated so the map would have to be fairly simple. Any one could read it.
“Then this Rodney could follow the directions, and if he had the map he could have gone at once to the right spot and dug up the treasure. Instead he digs holes all over the bramble patch. What’s the answer?
“He didn’t have the map—of course. Or, if he did, he didn’t know how to read it. The answer is that he didn’t have it and was making a blind hunt.
“Then, if he didn’t have the map who has it? Who is the other party most interested?”
There was but one answer to this. New suspicions were fast forming in the mind of Bob Dexter—new suspicions which might mean the solving of the Storm Mountain mystery.
CHAPTER XXI
NEW TACTICS
With a grinding and squeaking of the brakes, which was a reminder to Bob that he must get some new lining, the little car came to a stop near the silent and deserted railroad station in Cliffside. Deserted it was save for the presence of the lone agent in the ticket office, as evidenced by a gleam of light shining out into the cold and clammy mists of the night.
The milk train had just left, Bob knew. If he had hoped to intercept either the man with the hook or the man with the monkey he was disappointed, but Bob did not show any signs of this.
“Hello, Mr. Dawson,” he greeted the agent, who peered wonderingly out at him through the brass bars of his window.
“Well, bless my ticket stamp—if it isn’t Bob Dexter!” exclaimed the agent. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour? The milk train’s gone, Bob!”
“I know it. Heard her pulling up Storm Mountain.”
“And there isn’t another until the accommodation at 5:15.”
“Which I’m not going to take, thank goodness.”
“Well, then—” there was mild questioning in the agent’s voice.
“It’s just a private matter I’m working on, Mr. Dawson,” said Bob, making sure no early morning travelers were sitting on the deserted benches in the dimly-lighted waiting room of the station.
“Oh, up to your old tricks, eh, Bob?” The agent knew the reputation the lad was earning for himself.
“Something like that—yes.”
“Another Jennie Thorp case, Bob?”
“Not exactly. But tell me, Mr. Dawson, did a couple of men get on the milk train just now?”
“Yes—two men—one with an iron hook in place of a hand.”
“Those are the ones. The other was a fellow with a big bunch of whiskers and hair enough to stuff a sofa pillow, and a hand organ and a monkey.”
“No, Bob, not exactly.”
“Not exactly—what do you mean, Mr. Dawson?”
“I mean there wasn’t any man with a hand organ and a monkey.”
“Oh, well, he could have left that behind, though what the poor monk will do I don’t know. Anyhow he had a lot of hair and whiskers, didn’t he?”
“No, Bob,” answered the agent, “he didn’t. You got that one man right—he had a hook all right. But the other was smooth-shaved and his hair wasn’t any longer than mine.”
Bob was staggered for a minute. Then a light broke in on him.
“Of course!” he cried. “He could have taken off the false beard and wig, or have stopped long enough, somewhere, to get a hair cut and a shave.”
“He had a shave, Bob, I’ll testify to that. I was close to him when he bought the tickets.”
“Bought tickets, did he? Where to, Mr. Dawson?”
“Perry Junction.”
“Um, down where they can catch the fast trains. But there aren’t so many trains at this time of the morning. Maybe I can nab them yet.”
“What are you going to do, Bob?” asked Mr. Dawson, as the lad started from the station.
“I’m going to take the short cut to Perry Junction. I can beat the milk, for it’s got half a dozen stops between here and there to pick up cans. I want to see these fellows.”
“Better not take any chances with them, Bob,” advised Mr. Dawson. “They didn’t look like very nice customers, especially that man with the iron hook. If he made a dig at you with that—zowie, boy!” The agent drew in his breath sharply.
“Don’t worry—I’m not going to take any chances, Mr. Dawson. I’m going to stop and pick up an officer at headquarters.”
“I think that’s wise. I didn’t like the looks of these chaps from the time they came in. I was suspicious of them, and I thought I might be in for a hold-up, until I remembered that I didn’t have enough money on hand to make it worth while. But they were civil enough.”
“And you say the man with the smooth face bought the tickets?”
“Yes—two, for Ferry Junction.”
“Did he talk like an Italian?”
“No, Bob, I can’t say he did. Talked like as American, as far as I could judge.”
“Then he must have dropped his pretended Italian jargon along with his hair and whiskers,” thought the young detective. “Well, things are beginning to work out—though what the end will be I can’t tell.” Aloud, to the agent, he said:
“Well, I guess I’ll be getting along if I’m going to beat the milk, though that won’t be so hard. She’s got a bad grade ahead of her up Storm Mountain. Much obliged for your information, Mr. Dawson.”
“Don’t mention it, Bob. Hope you make out all right with your case.”
“Thanks, I hope I do.”
“I reckon, before long, you’ll be on the police force of some big city, Bob.”
“No such luck as that, Mr. Dawson. But that’s what I’m working for. Good-night.”
“Good-morning, you mean!” chuckled Mr. Dawson as he smiled at the lad. “It’ll soon be daylight.”
So it will. Well, I’ve got to get a hustle on.
The young detective found Constable Tarton on night duty at police headquarters. Mr. Tarton had considerable respect for Bob, for he knew of the outcome of the case of the Golden Eagle. In fact Caleb would rather work with Bob than with Chief Miles Duncan.
So it was with eagerness that Mr. Tarton agreed to accompany the lad in the flivver to Perry Junction, there, if need arose, to make an arrest on suspicion.
“I’ll just wake up Sim Nettlebury, and let him take charge of matters,” the constable said with a chuckle. “Not that anything is likely to happen in Cliffside at this hour of the morning, but I got to follow regulations. Sim won’t like it, though, being woke up.”
Sim didn’t, as was evident from his grumbles and growls as the night constable aroused him in the room over the main office of police headquarters. A certain proportion of the limited police force of Cliffside slept on the premises, taking turns the different nights.
“Now I’m ready to go with you, Bob,” announced Mr. Tarton, as the half-awake Sim, rubbing his eyes, tried to find a comfortable place behind the desk with its green-shaded lamp.
Bob Dexter had thought out his plan carefully, and yet he was not at all sure of the outcome. The identity of Rod Marbury, the man suspected of assaulting Hiram and stealing the brass-bound box, with Pietro Margolis was a surprise to the young detective. How the man with the iron hook fitted into the mystery Bob could not yet fathom.
But that something had occurred between the two to make Rod leave off his disguise, and hurry out of town was evident.
“He fooled Hiram and he fooled Jolly Bill,” thought Bob. “The question is now can he fool me. I was taken in by his monkey nuts, but from now on I’ll be on my guard. And yet I don’t believe he took the brass box. But he may know who did. The man with the iron hook couldn’t have—I’m sure. Hiram never mentioned such a character, and he would have done so, I’m sure, if there had been any such character to mention. You don’t meet a man with an iron hook every day. Well, it may be working out—this Storm Mountain mystery—but it’s doing so in a queer way.”
“All set, Bob,” said the constable, as he got in the flivver.
“Let’s go!” was the grim rejoinder.
The roads were clear of traffic, save for an occasional farmer bringing to town, for the early market, a load of produce. And, as Bob had said, he could take a short cut, intercepting the milk train, almost before it reached Perry Junction. The train, as the lad had stated, would have to make a number of stops to pick up cans of milk which the dairymen had left at the different stations along the route.
“Those fellows must have been in a desperate hurry, Bob, to take the milk train,” said the constable, as they jolted along side by side in the flivver.
“Hurry—on the milk?” laughed Bob.
“Well, I mean in a hurry to get out of town. Of course the train is a slow-poke, but they could get out of Cliffside on her, and that’s what they wanted, maybe.”
“That’s so,” agreed Bob. “I didn’t think of that”
“Think of what?” asked Caleb Tarton.
“Oh—nothing much. Hold fast now, here’s a bit of rough road.”
It was rough—so much so that at the speed which Bob drove all the constable could do was to hold on. And he didn’t dare open his mouth to ask questions for fear of biting off his tongue.
Which, perhaps, was Bob’s object. I’m not saying it was, but it would have been a good way to insure silence.
Then they got onto a smooth, concrete highway, leading directly to Perry Junction. A faint light was showing, now, in the east.
“Soon be sun-up, Bob,” remarked Mr. Tarton.
“Yep. It’s been a long night, I’ll say. I haven’t been to bed yet”
“You haven’t?”
“No. I ran off a party. Then I ran onto this clew and I’ve been busy on it ever since.”
“Well, we’ll soon know what’s what, Bob. There’s the station right ahead of us.”
“Yes, and here comes the milk,” added Bob, as a shrill whistle cut the keen, morning air.
“We’re just about in time,” remarked the constable.
Perry Junction was not a station of any importance save that certain fast trains stopped there to pick up passengers from other points along the line. And it was evidently the object of the two men to take advantage of this. Bob had made his plans well, and they would have worked out admirably save for one thing.
The two men he was after weren’t on the train. A simple thing, but it loomed big.
Bob and the constable leaped from their flivver as the milk train drew to a screeching stop, and the two hid themselves behind a corner of the station. It was now light enough so that they could see who got off the milk train. But the man with the iron hook and the man who had been masquerading as an organ grinder, were not among the passengers that alighted.
“Looks like they give us the slip, Bob,” observed Mr. Tarton.
“Yes, it does. But they may be on there yet. This isn’t the end of the milk run. I’ll ask the conductor.”
The latter was walking up and down the platform waiting for the completion of loading on more rattling cans of milk. He knew Bob, and greeted him.
“Man with an iron hook?” questioned the ticket puncher. “Yes, he got on at Cliffside.”
“Was there another man with him—a smooth-shaved man?”
“Yes, Bob, there was. I didn’t have many passengers—we seldom do this time of year, with the excursion business over. But I remember those two.”
“They had tickets for Perry Junction, didn’t they?”
“Yes, now I recall it, they did.”
“But they aren’t here.”
“No, Bob, they got off somewhere between Tottenville and Andover. I noticed them at Tottenville, but I didn’t see them at Andover.”
“But there isn’t a station between those two places.”
“No station, Bob, but we stop at three white posts to pick up milk. Farm-stations we call them—not regular stops for any except my train. These fellows could have gotten off anywhere along there, and they probably did.”
“Shucks!” ejaculated Bob. “That’s it! I might have known they wouldn’t give themselves away by coming to the place for which they have tickets. They got off at some place where they wouldn’t be noticed. Well, I guess we might as well go back,” he told the constable.
“How about searching the train?” asked the latter eagerly. “They might be concealed somewhere on board, Bob.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the conductor. “They just dropped off at one of the white post stops between Tottenville and Andover. Why, was there anything wrong about them?”
“Suspicions, mostly, that’s all,” said Bob.
The last can rattled aboard, the conductor gave the signal, the engineer gave two toots to the whistle and the milk train pulled away from Perry Junction.
“Guess they had you barkin’ up the wrong tree, didn’t they, Bob?” asked the constable as they rode on back to Cliffside.
“In a way, yes. But, after all, maybe it’s just as well it turned out like this.”
“Just as well, Bob? Why, don’t you want to help find the rascal that robbed Hiram?”
“Yes, but I don’t believe either of these fellows did.”
“Who did then?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
It was with this end in view that, two days later, Bob paid a visit to the Mansion House where Jolly Bill Hickey was still staying. Bob had a long talk with Nelson Beel, the proprietor.
“Certainly, Bob, I’ll let you do it,” was the permission given. “But I don’t like any disturbance about my place.”
“There won’t be any, Mr. Beel, I promise you that. It will all be done very quietly.”
“All right, Bob, go to it.”
Thereupon the young detective began some new tactics.
CHAPTER XXII
THE BRASS BOX
Nearly every town, or small city has, or had at one time, a large hotel known as the “Mansion House.” In this Cliffside was no exception, and the chief hostelry bore that name. It was a big, rambling, old-fashioned structure and, in its day, had housed many a “gay and festive scene,” to quote the CliffsideWeekly Bannerwhich once ran a series of stories about famous men and places in the community.
However, though the Mansion House may once have had such a distinction as being a place (one of several thousand) where George Washington stayed overnight, now were its glories departed, and it was but an ordinary hotel. Some old residents, who had given up their homes, lived there the year around. It was the stopping place of such traveling men, or drummers, who occasionally came to the place, and the annual “assembly ball” was held there.
Being an old-fashioned hotel it had many connecting and adjoining rooms, with doors between, and transoms of glass over the said doors. It was a “family” hotel, to use the expression Mr. Beel often applied to his place.
Consequently it wasn’t difficult for Bob Dexter to secure a place of observation near the room where Jolly Bill Hickey had elected to stay for a time.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Bill had said to Mr. Beel, when Bob drove him to the place the morning of the discovery of the crime on Storm Mountain.
“Stay as long as you like—we’ll try and make you welcome!” Mr. Beel had said with the bluff heartiness that characterized him when greeting a new guest.
“And you’re sure no one will object to my wooden leg?” asked Jolly Bill.
“Huh! I’d like to see ’em!” snapped out the proprietor. “You got just as good a right to have a wooden leg as another man has to have two of flesh and blood, I reckon.”
“Thanks. I’ll do my best not to make any trouble.”
So had Jolly Bill taken up his residence, and his reference to having a “few shots left in the locker” to pay his way was amply borne out, for he met his weekly bills with great regularity.
“There’s a little cubbyhole of a room next to his,” Mr. Beel had said when Bob broached his new tactics. “It used to be used to store drummers’ trunks in, when Cliffside did a bigger business than it does now. You can get in there and look over the transom if you like.”
“Well, I’ll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate. But don’t let it be known that I’m there.”
“I won’t, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I’ll furnish you with a key. And you’ll have a good excuse in being here.”
“Yes—arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys’ Club.”
For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee, and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place, it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his presence in the hotel.
Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room, adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind. Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn’t. It was all so vague—merely a suspicion.
“What’s got into old Bob lately?” asked Harry of Ned, a few days after the futile chase of the milk train.
“Oh, he’s working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on that.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Nothing special. Bob never does when he’s following close on a clew. But he said he might not see us for a few days.”
“Well, I guess we’d just better let him alone.”
“Sure. He won’t thank us for butting in, and if he wants any help he knows we’ll give it to him.”
“Sure.”
Thereupon the two chums had gone off nutting again, leaving Bob Dexter to his own devices.
Taking advantage of the fact that there were few late arrivals in the Mansion House, which, unlike the Railroad hotel, did not keep open all night, Bob made his entry as an unregistered guest in his little room about two o’clock one morning. Mr. Beel was the only one around at the time.
“Good luck to you, Bob,” the proprietor had said, as he watched the lad enter his room quietly. “He’s in there,” and he motioned to the apartment of Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Bob’s first activity, after settling himself, was to mount on a chair and examine, as best he could in the feeble light of one electric bulb in his room, the transom over the door between his apartment and that of Jolly Bill.
At one time these two rooms had formed part of a suite, but when there was little call except for single rooms, the transom had been closed and painted black to prevent surreptitious views from one room to the other.
“And the paint’s on my side,” exclaimed Bob. “That makes it easier. I’ll scrape a peep-hole in the morning, after Jolly Bill goes out.”
Bob was concentrating his efforts and suspicions on this wooden-legged sailor now, since all efforts to trace the man with the iron hook, and his companion, had failed.
Bob did not sleep very well the remainder of that night. His mind was too filled with the possibilities that might follow his action. But toward morning he fell asleep, and the early winter sun was quite high when he opened his eyes.
“Gosh,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I ought to have been up long ago. Wonder if he’s gone out?”
He listened but could hear no sound from the next room.
“I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep,” mused Bob, rather chagrined at himself. “Maybe he’s flown the coop and gone out on the milk train.”
But he was reassured, a little later, by hearing the voice of Jolly Bill himself. The voice followed a knock on his door—evidently a summons to arise—for there were no room telephones in the Mansion House. A chambermaid or bell boy had to come up and knock on the doors of guests to arouse them in case they requested such attention.
“All right I All right!” sounded the voice of the man with the wooden leg. “All right! I’m getting up! Got lots to do to-day!”
This was rather amusing, from the fact that since he had arrived in Cliffside Jolly Bill had done nothing in the line of work—unless digging worms to go fishing could be so called.
“All right! I’m on the job, too!” said Bob, silently to himself. Quickly he mounted to a chair which raised him so that he could look through the transom over his door. He moved silently. He did not want Bill to know, if it could be avoided, that there was a guest in the next room.
With the point of a knife blade, Bob removed a little of the black paint on his side of the transom. It gave him a peep-hole and he applied his eye to it.
Rather a mean and sneaking business, this of spying through peep-holes, the lad thought. The only consolation was that he was going through it in a good cause—his desire to bring criminals to justice and aid Hiram Beegle.
To Bob’s delight he found that he had a good view of the interior of Jolly Bill’s room, and he had sight of that individual himself, sitting on the edge of his bed and vigorously stretching himself as a preliminary to his morning ablutions.
Bill’s wooden leg was unstrapped from the stump, and lay on a chair near him, as did the heavy cane he used to balance himself, for he was a stout man.
“It couldn’t be better—if it works out the way I think it will,” mused the lad. Eagerly and anxiously he watched now for the next move on the part of the old sailor. For it was on this move that much might depend.
Having stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes to remove therefrom as much as possible of the “sleep,” by a process of dry washing, Jolly Bill prepared for his day’s activities by reaching out for his wooden leg.
“Now,” whispered Bob to himself, as he stood gazing through his peep-hole in the painted transom, “am I right or am I wrong? It won’t take long to tell if things work out the way I expect they will. Steady now!” he told himself.
Jolly Bill pulled his wooden leg toward him as he sat on the bed. He must strap it on before he could begin stumping about to begin his day of “work,” whatever that mysterious occupation was.
And then, as Bob watched, the old sailor, with a look toward the window, to make sure the shades were pulled down, plunged his hand into the interior of his wooden leg.
This artificial limb, like many of its kind, was hollow to make it lighter. There was quite a cavity within.
Another look toward the curtained window, but never a glance did Jolly Bill bestow on the painted transom over the door between his room and the cubbyhole. Why should he look there? No one had occupied it since he had been in the Mansion House. And it was unoccupied when Bill went to bed last night. He had made sure of that as he always did. But Bob had come in since.
And then, as the young detective peered through his peep-hole, he saw a sight which thrilled him.
For, from the hollow interior of his wooden leg, Jolly Bill pulled out the brass-bound box that had been so mysteriously stolen from the strong room of Hiram Beegle—the strong room which was locked in such a queer way, with the key inside and the criminal outside.
Jolly Bill held up the brass box, and smiled as he observed it.
“I guess,” he murmured, “I guess it’s about time I had another go at you, to see if I can get at what you mean. For blessed if I’ve been able to make head or tail of you yet! Not head or tail!”
And, sitting on the bed, his wooden leg beside him, Jolly Bill Hickey began fumbling with the brass box.
The eyes of Bob Dexter shone eagerly.
CHAPTER XXIII
SOLVING A PUZZLE
Many a detective, amateur or professional, having seen what Bob Dexter saw through the scratched hole in the painted transom, would have rushed in and demanded the box which held the secret of the buried treasure. But Bob knew that his case was only half completed when he discovered who had the box.
Up to within a few days ago he had suspected the mysterious and missing Rod Marbury. But with the linking up of that character with the organ grinder, and the departure of the latter with the hook-armed man, Bob had to cast some new theories.
Now he had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes, but still he was not ready to spring the trap. There were many things yet to be established.
True, there was the brass box, and as Bill, with his wooden leg not yet strapped to his stump sat looking at it on the edge of his bed, Bob could not but believe that it was the treasure box willed to Hiram Beegle, and stolen from that old sailor.
The half-whispered, exulting words of Jolly Bill himself as he eagerly eyed the box proved it to be the one sought. But Bill’s words also indicated that there was still some mystery connected with the casket—some secret about it that needed solving.
For the wooden-legged man had said:
“I’ve not been able to make head or tail of you—not head or tail!”
That indicated a failure to ascertain the hiding place of the gold buried by Hank Denby.
“But Bill’s had a try for it,” mused Bob as he watched the man. “That digging of fish worms was only a bluff. He was digging to see if the treasure might not be buried on Hiram’s place.
“And that story of monkey nuts—that was bluff, too. The Italian, or whatever Rod is, was digging for the treasure. But he didn’t have whatever is in the box to guide him. Now I wonder what’s in that box?”
Bob did not have to wait long in wonder, for the wooden-legged man, after fumbling with what seemed to be a complicated lock or catch, opened the brass-bound box, and took out a folded paper. That was all there was in the box it seemed, bearing out Hiram’s story to the effect that Hank had left him directions for finding the treasure—a most peculiar proceeding. But then the whole story of digging up the treasure on the South Sea island was peculiar—like a dream, Bob thought. Sometimes he found himself doubting the whole yarn.
But there was a paper in the brass box, that was certain, and Jolly Bill had gone to considerable trouble, not to say risk, in securing it. He had played his cards well, not to have been suspected by Hiram, Bob thought.
“But if Bill, smart as he is, can’t make head or tail of that paper, which tells where the treasure is buried, how can Hiram do so?” mused Bob. “He hasn’t as much education as Bill has. They were all common sailors, though Hank may have been the best educated—he probably was. But he would know Hiram couldn’t solve any complicated directions for digging up buried treasure, so he would have to leave him simple rules to follow.
“Now if Bill can’t make head or tail of it, how could Hiram be expected to?” That was bothering Bob now more than he liked to admit. But he was far from giving up the quest. He must watch Bill.
The one-legged sailor, unconscious that he was being observed in his “undress uniform,” was eagerly looking over the paper. He held it right-side up, and upside down. He turned it this way and that, and held it up to the light. But all to no purpose as indicated by his slowly shaking head.
“No, I can’t make head or tail of you, and that’s a fact,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll have to get help on this. But I don’t want to if I don’t have to. If I could only get Hiram to talk he might give me the lead I want. I’ll have another go at Hiram, I guess. He doesn’t suspect anything yet.”
Bill returned the paper to the little casket, closed the lid with a snap and then put the brass box back in the interior of his wooden leg. Having done this Bill proceeded to get dressed for the day.
And Bob Dexter prepared to make so quiet an exit from the Mansion House that the old sailor would not know he had been there. To this end Bob left before Bill was downstairs, slipping out the back way as arranged with Mr. Beel.
In first planning his work looking to the discovery of the thief who had taken Hiram’s box, Bob Dexter had in mind a very spectacular bit of play. It was based on some of the stories of celebrated detectives—real or imagined sleuths.
How Bob had come, by a process of elimination, to suspect that Jolly Bill was the thief, I think you can reason out for yourselves. If not I shall disclose it to you. Sufficient now to say that Bob did suspect Jolly Bill, and with good reason, though there was one big gap in the sequence of steps leading to the crime. And that was to learn how the key had been put back in the room where the unconscious Hiram lay. But of that more later.
As I say, Bob had in mind a daring bit of work as soon as he discovered for a fact that Bill had the box. This was nothing more or less than a false alarm of fire at the Mansion House. Bob reasoned that if the cry of fire were to be shouted Bill, and all the other guests, would at once rush to save that which they considered most valuable. And that if Bill kept the brass box locked somewhere in his room, he would rush to get it out, Bob fully believed.
However the discovery that the sailor kept the box in what, to him, was the best hiding place in the world, namely his wooden leg, made it unnecessary for Bob to go to the length he had planned.
Bill, himself, had given away the secret. The box was always with him. It was only necessary to take off his wooden leg and the secret of the treasure would be laid bare, so to speak.
“That is I’ll get the directions for finding the gold,” mused Bob. “But whether I can make any sense of the directions is another matter. However, well have a try.”
Bob’s first act, after emerging from the hotel by the back way, was to go home and get a good breakfast. He was just in time to eat with his uncle who was preparing to leave for his office.
“Well, Bob, you’re quite a stranger,” said Mr. Dexter, smiling.
“Yes,” admitted the lad. “But I’m going to be at home more, from now on.”
“I do hope so,” sighed his aunt. “I’m so worried about you, Bob! You aren’t going to get into danger, are you?”
“No, indeed, Aunt Hannah.”
“Well, I know one thing he’s going to get into next week,” said Uncle Joel dryly.
“What’s that?” asked Bob.
“School,” was the laconic reply. “School opens next week.”
“I shan’t be sorry,” replied Bob. “I’ll clean up this case and be glad to get back to my books. There’s a lot of fun at school.”
But there yet remained considerable work to be done on the Storm Mountain mystery and the solving of the secret of the log cabin. To this end the young detective visited Hiram Beegle in the lonely shack that morning. To the old sailor Bob told certain things, and certain things he didn’t tell him. But what he said was enough to cause Hiram to sit down and write Jolly Bill a letter, a letter worded as Bob suggested.
Whether it was this letter, or because he wanted to see his old messmate is not certain, but, at any rate, Jolly Bill Hickey called at the log cabin next day. And Bob Dexter was there.
So, also, were Bob’s chums, Ned and Harry. None of the lads, however, was in evidence, being in fact, concealed in the strong room—that same room which had been so mysteriously locked after the theft of the brass box.
Bob had given up, for the time being, any attempt to solve the mystery of the key. He found it better to concentrate on one thing at a time, and the principal matter was to get Hiram into possession of the treasure that was rightfully his.
“What do you want us to do, Bob?” asked Ned as, with Harry, he sat in the strong room, waiting the development of the plot.
“Well, well have to be guided pretty much by circumstances,” Bob answered. “Jolly Bill is coming here, and Hiram is going to talk to him. Bill doesn’t know we’re here. At least I hope he doesn’t. Perhaps you’d just better leave it to me. Follow me when I go out and back me up.”
“Sure well do that,” promised Harry.
So they waited and, in due time, Bill came stumping up the path. He had engaged a taxicab, or one of the decrepit autos in Cliffside which passed for such, and so rode up to the log cabin in style. At Bob’s suggestion, Hiram had offered to pay for the taxi, in order to insure Bill’s presence.
“Well, here I am, old timer! Here’s your old friend Jolly Bill Hickey! Here’s your old messmate!” greeted the one-legged man as he clapped Hiram heartily on the shoulder. “We must stick together, messmate. You’ve had hard luck and I’ve had hard luck. Now well stick together.”
“He’ll stick Hiram all right, if he gets the chance,” whispered Ned.
“Quiet,” urged Bob, who was listening at the keyhole of the strong room, the door of which was closed, but not locked.
After some general conversation, during which Bill emphasized his friendship for Hiram, the one-legged man asked:
“Haven’t you any idea, Hiram, where old Hank would be likely to bury that treasure of his? If you had you could go dig it up, you know, without waiting to find the box with the map in. If you had an idea, you know, I could help you dig. I only got one leg, that’s true, but I can dig. Look how I dug the fish worms.”
“Yes, you did dig worms, Bill,” admitted Hiram gently. “And I don’t see how you did it. It must have hurt your leg—I mean the stump where your wooden leg is fastened on. Why don’t you take off your wooden leg, Bill, and rest yourself. Come on, take off your wooden leg.”
“What’s that!” cried Bill, with more emphasis than the simple request seemed to call for. “Take off my leg? I guess not! I only take it off when I go to bed.”
“Well, take it off now, and go to bed,” urged Hiram. He was following a line of talk suggested by Bob, though the latter had not disclosed the reason therefor.
“What—take off my wooden leg and go to bed—in the morning?” cried Bill. “You must be crazy, Hiram! What’s gotten into you?”
“I want to see you take off that wooden leg, Bill,” was the mild reply. “I’d like to see that wooden leg off you.”
“Well, you aren’t going to see it off me!” snapped out Jolly Bill, who was anything but that now. “I’m not going to take off my wooden leg to please any one! There’s something wrong with you, Hiram. I can tell that.”
His voice was suspicious. Bob looked toward his silent chums. The time to act was approaching.
“You won’t take off your wooden leg, Bill?” asked Hiram.
“Not for anybody—not until I go to bed!” declared the other vigorously.
“Well, then, it’s time you went to bed!” cried Bob, as he swung open the door and walked out into the main room of the log cabin, closely followed by Ned and Harry.
“Wha—what—what’s the meaning of this?” cried Jolly Bill, when he could get his breath. “What—why, it’s my friend Bob!” he cried, with seeming pleasure as he arose and stumped forward with extended hands. “My old friend Bob. Shake with Jolly Bill!”
“We’ll shake your leg—that’s all we’ll shake!” cried Ned, taking his cue from what Bob had said.
“And you might as well go to bed now,” added Harry.
Jolly Bill was standing near a couch, and suddenly, with a gentle push, Harry sent him backward so that he fell, full length on this improvised bed.
So sudden was the push, gentle as it was, that it took away the breath of Jolly Bill. He gasped and spluttered on the couch, trying in vain to raise his head, for Ned was holding him down. And as a horse cannot rise if you hold his head down, so, neither, can a man, and Bill was in just this situation.
“Let me up, you young rascals! Let me up! I’ll have the law on you for this! I’ll call the police! What do you mean? Hiram, what’s the game? You asked me here to talk about the treasure—you said you might divide it, and now—stop! stop!” yelled Jolly Bill.
And well might he yell “stop!” for he felt many hands fumbling at his wooden leg. Hands were unbuckling the straps that held the wooden limbs to his stump. And Hiram’s hands were among these.
“Stop! Stop!” angrily cried Bill. “What are you doing to me?”
“Taking off your leg—that’s all,” answered Bob quietly as he finally pulled the wooden member away from its owner. “But it isn’t going to hurt you, Jolly Bill. This is all we want—now you may have your leg back again!”
As Bob spoke he pulled from the hollow interior of the wooden limb the brass-bound box. At the sight of it Hiram raised a cry of delight.
“That’s mine! That’s mine!” he shouted. “It was stolen from me! It holds the secret of the buried treasure. And you had it all the while, Bill Hickey. You tried to rob me! Give me that box! Scoundrel!”
Bob, with a smile, passed it over. Nor could he cease smiling at the look of chagrin in the face of Jolly Bill Hickey. That individual seemed in a daze as he fumbled at his wooden leg and looked within the hollow of it.
“Empty! Gone!” he gasped.
“Yes, Bill, the jig is up for you,” remarked Bob. “You had your try at solving the puzzle, but you couldn’t make head or tail of it, could you? Not head or tail!”
At hearing repeated to him the very words he had used in reference to the brass box, Bill turned pale.
“Wha—what’s it all about? Who are you, anyhow?” he gasped and there was a look of fear on his face as he gazed at Bob.
“He’s just an amateur detective, that’s all,” chuckled Harry.
“But I guess he’s solved this mystery,” added Ned.
“No, not quite all,” admitted Bob with a smile. “We have yet to find the treasure. Bill had a try at it, but he couldn’t locate it. Now we’ve got to solve the puzzle. Do you mind opening that box, Mr. Beegle? It isn’t difficult. The difficulty lies inside, I think.
“And don’t try any of your tricks, Bill Hickey,” he sternly warned the wooden-legged sailor, who was still holding his artificial limb with a look of wonder on his face. “If things turn out all right, and Hiram doesn’t want to make a complaint against you, we’ll let you stump off. But if you cut up rough—we’ll have the police here in no time.”
“I’m not going to cut up rough,” said Bill, humbly enough, “But you won’t make anything out of that,” he added, as Hiram drew a folded paper from the brass box. “I tried. I might as well admit it, for you seem to know all about it,” he went on. “I tried but I couldn’t make head or tail of it. There’s no sense to it. I don’t believe there is any treasure. I believe Hank used it all up himself and then left this silly paper to tease you, Hiram. It’s a lot of bosh!”
And when Bob Dexter and his chums glanced at the paper they were inclined to agree with Jolly Bill, who now was far from what his name indicated.
For written in a plain, legible hand in black ink on what seemed to be a bit of old parchment, was this strange message:
It will not do to dignify, or, let us say, to magnify a sun spot. For ten million years thousands of feet have, to give them their due, tried to travel east or west, and have not found ten of these spots. The sunny south of the Red Sea makes a gateway that entices many away from their post of duty. In summer cows eat buttercups and they fatten up a lot.
It will not do to dignify, or, let us say, to magnify a sun spot. For ten million years thousands of feet have, to give them their due, tried to travel east or west, and have not found ten of these spots. The sunny south of the Red Sea makes a gateway that entices many away from their post of duty. In summer cows eat buttercups and they fatten up a lot.
“Whew!” ejaculated Ned as he read this. “What does it mean?”
“Reads like some of the stuff we have to translate in High School,” added Harry.
“It’s a puzzle, that’s what it is,” said Bob. “But we’ll have to solve it. Now, Mr. Beegle——”
“Look out—there he goes!” cried the sailor, as he jumped toward the door. But he was too late to intercept Bill Hickey who, having strapped on his wooden leg, was now pegging away at top speed down the trail from Storm Mountain.