CHAPTER VIII
Strange Doings
The Hardy boys and their chums spent the night at a hotel in a small village. They were up bright and early next morning, eager to reach the end of their journey. Had it not been for the delay consequent on the attempted theft of Frank's motorcycle, they might have reached the neighborhood of the caves that evening, but, as it was, they had a two hours' trip before them when they set out shortly after six o'clock.
Their immediate destination was a fishing village by the name of Glencove. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque but redolent of fishy odors, a typical hamlet of the kind. The boys were aware that Glencove was some distance north of the caves, but as they did not know the precise location of the "Honeycomb Cliffs," as they were called, they preferred to stop off at the village and get what information they could.
The general store, a ramshackle building where one could buy anything from safety pins to grindstones, where one could mail a letter, put through a telephone call, or obtain garage service, appeared to be the most likely spot. Parking their machines by the wooden sidewalk, the lads went into the store, where they found a venerable man with white whiskers patiently scrutinizing his newspaper.
"I guess we'd better stock up on a few supplies, eh, fellows?" Frank suggested.
This had been their plan. Instead of burdening their machines with provisions all the way from Bayport, they had decided to get supplies at the village nearest to the caves.
"Perhaps we won't have to stock up very heavily," said Joe. "If the caves aren't far away we may be able to drive up here when we run short of grub."
"That," said the hungry Chet, "would be terrible."
Frank turned to the old gentleman, who had put aside his paper and was regarding them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity entirely.
"How far is it to the place they call Honeycomb Cliffs?" he asked.
The old gentleman's eyes widened.
"Honeycomb Cliffs!" he said, in a high, cracked voice. "Be ye goin' to pass by there?"
"We want to camp around there for a few days and we were figuring on buying some supplies. If it's far away we'll buy all we need right now and carry the stuff with us."
The old man leaned farther over the counter.
"Ye're agoin' tocampat Honeycomb Cliffs!" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Why, yes."
"For three or four days!"
"Perhaps longer."
The old gentleman shook his head solemnly.
"Ye're strange to these parts, ain't ye?"
"This is the first time we've ever been down this way."
"I thought so," returned the old man with a great air of satisfaction, as though his judgment had been verified.
"Well," said Frank, becoming a trifle impatient, "we'd still like to know how much farther we have to go."
"It's a matter of about ten mile by the road. Then ye'll have to walk a ways."
"Ten miles. Why, that isn't very far. We'll just buy enough food to last us a day or so and then if we need more one of us can come back here. There's no use packing along too much."
"And ye say ye're goin' to camp there?" persisted the old man, as though he could not quite grasp the fact.
"Yes. What's wrong about that? Aren't there any places we can pitch a tent?"
"Oh, yes, there's places ye can pitch a tent and I've no doubt but there's fishermen's cottages that you could find a room at. But if I was you I wouldn't do no campin' near Honeycomb Cliffs. That is," said the old man, "unless ye stay away from the caves."
"Why, that's what we came for," put in Biff. "We intend to explore the caves!"
The old man gave a perceptible gasp at this.
"Explore 'em! Lads, ye're crazy."
The old gentleman's attitude puzzled the boys extremely.
"Is it against the law?" Chet inquired.
"No, it ain't agin the law, but it's agin common sense."
"Why?"
"It just is—that's all," retorted the storekeeper, as though that explained everything.
"You don't mean to say it's dangerous!"
"Maybe. Maybe," returned their informant mysteriously. "It may not be dangerous, but it would be foolish. If ye'll take my advice ye'll stay away from them caves."
"Why?"
"There's some queer things been goin' on down there lately. Folks tell me the fishermen down that way are scared nigh to death."
"What are they afraid of?" asked Biff.
The old man shrugged eloquently.
"That's just it. Nobody knows. But there's been queer lights seen down around them caves. And shootin'."
"Shooting!"
"Guns goin' off," explained the storekeeper, as if they had failed to understand the word. "Mighty queer doin's, they say. Two men a'ready that tried to find out what was goin' on—they got shot at."
Chet whistled softly.
"This sounds good," he observed. "We may stay longer than we had intended."
"Ye may stay forever," growled the old man gloomily.
Frank smiled at this thrust.
"Has anybody any idea what's wrong?" he asked.
The storekeeper leaned across the counter and lowered his voice, in the manner of one imparting a deep secret.
"They do say," he declared, "that there's smugglin' of liquor in them parts."
"I suppose that's only natural. There's a lot of it along the coast, and the caves would make that an ideal spot."
"Well, whether there is or there ain't, the caves ain't healthy for strangers. If I was you lads, I'd stay away from there."
"Well, we've planned this trip and I think we'll go through with it," Frank said. "If you'll fix us up with some supplies, we'll be on our way. We're not afraid of bootleggers."
"Do as ye like," the old man returned, as though washing his hands of any further responsibility. "But I'm warnin' ye. It ain't no place if ye're lookin' for a quiet outing."
"The one thing we're afraid of, is aquietouting," Joe assured him. "Excitement," he added slangily, "is our meat."
"Ye'll get lots of it if ye go pokin' around them caves," the old gentleman predicted. "Mebbe a lot more than ye bargain for."
However, he was prevailed upon to sell the lads a quantity of provisions for their trip, although he accompanied the transaction by a running fire of dismal comments on the unlikelihood that they would ever be seen alive again. When he saw that they were determined to go to the caves, in spite of his admonitions, he wagged his head sadly and mumbled a few caustic remarks on the stubborness of boys in general who would never listen to their elders.
The Hardy boys and their chums, far from being frightened at the prospect of danger at Honeycomb Cliffs, were elated. They were disposed to disregard much of what the old man had said—the perils were most probably exaggerated in the re-telling—but there was no mistaking the old man's sincerity and they knew that undoubtedly there was a mystery of some kind concerning the neighborhood of the caves.
"What that mystery is, we're going to find out," said Joe, as they mounted their motorcycles again, duly laden with supplies. He expressed the determination of all.
"It looks a lot brighter," Chet agreed. "There's a chance of a bit of excitement now."
"Oh, probably there's nothing to it," scoffed Biff. "Somebody has seen a tramp's campfire on the cliffs and heard some one shooting at a rabbit, and started a big yarn out of it."
"Well, we are going to have our own fun exploring those caves, and if there's a mystery on foot, so much the better," said Joe.
The boys followed the directions given them by the old storekeeper and in due time left the coast road and turned down a rutty, tortuous lane that ended on the open seashore, near a fisherman's cottage. The little house was built at the base of a hill and the beach ended at this point in towering cliffs. The lads could see a faint, winding path leading up the side of the hill back of the cottage.
"I know what they call this place," said Chet gravely.
"I don't think it has a name," said Biff.
"Oh, yes, they call this place Fish-hook."
"Fish-hook? Why?" asked Biff, neatly falling into the trap.
"Because it's at the end of the line."
With that, Chet brought his motorcycle to a stop. The Hardy boys also stopped, joining Chet in his laughter at the foolish look on Biff's face when he saw how he had been duped.
The storekeeper had told them that the fisherman's cottage was the last human habitation on the way to the caves and that they could very likely get permission to leave their machines there for safe-keeping. To reach the caves they had to climb the path up the hillside until they reached the top of the cliffs, then proceed for a considerable distance until they came to a deep ravine, where they could descend to the shore. They would then find themselves on a beach whereby they could reach the caves to right and to left. The cliffs themselves cut off access to the caves by any other route than the ravines, several of which were to be encountered in the three miles of steep coast, as at the northern and southern extremities the cliffs were sheer to the deep water and could not be skirted even at low tide.
The boys had scarcely dismounted from their motorcycles when the door of the cottage opened and a stocky, leathern-faced man of middle age emerged. He was plainly a fisherman and he came over to them, a look of surprise on his broad, good-natured countenance.
"What can I do for you, my lads?" he inquired. "It ain't often I see strangers here."
"We want to know if we could leave our motorcycles here for safe-keeping?" asked Frank.
"Certainly. Most certainly, you can. There's a shed back of the house, where you can put 'em. Is it just for an hour or so? Goin' up on the cliffs?"
"Perhaps for a few days. We were planning to go exploring among the caves."
The fisherman's expression changed instantly.
"Explorin' the caves!" he exclaimed. "You'd best go back home. There's strange doin's in the caves these days. It's no place for boys."