The Happy Valley Mystery

of their truck?” Honey said excitedly. “Let’s crawl under the fence.”
    Jim held the lower fence wire while the girls rolled under; then Trixie held it for him.
    “They couldn’t have picked a better place to get away with their crime,” Trixie said. “This far comer is practically on Army Post Road. They didn’t even need to run their truck up onto the soft ground and leave tracks. No, there’s not a thing here.”
    Honey, kicking around in the stubble, struck something with her foot. She pushed it over in front of Jim.
    “It’s a knife,” she said, “a heavy one. Sort of a sharp knife, isn’t it? It’s just beginning to rust... can’t have been here very long.”
    Trixie bent over it. “Are there any marks on it?” Jim turned it over and over in his hands, then handed it to Trixie. “Not a thing I can find,” he said. "It looks like any other knife to me. Maybe you can find something on it.”
    Trixie looked, then sorrowfully gave it to Honey. “Hold on to it,” she said. “If there ever was a mark—a fingerprint or anything like that—we’ve destroyed it by handling it. If anyone finds anything else, for goodness’ sake, let it stay where it is till we can pick it up by the comer with a handkerchief.”
    “It doesn’t look as though there’s going to be anything else to pick up,” Jim said, disgusted. “I should have remembered fingerprints.”
    “Honey and I will make wonderful detectives if we can’t remember an elementary thing like that,” Trixie said.
    Jim laughed. “Do you know what Mart would say if he were here and heard you say that?”
    “No,” Trixie said. “What?”
    “ ‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ ” Jim said. “He’s always calling you a ‘female Sherlock Holmes’ and Honey ‘Dr. Watson.’ ”
    “I wish I really were Sherlock Holmes for about half an hour,” Trixie said. “What’s that thing you’re squashing under your foot?”
    Jim moved his boot.
    “Some kind of an old hat,” he said and picked it up. “Pick it up by the corner!” Honey cried.
    “Don’t worry,” Jim said. “Fingerprints wouldn’t show on an old hat like this.”
    “A name on the sweatband would show,” Trixie said. “Let me see.”
    Jim turned the crown of the old battered hat inside out, and there, inked in durable black on the sweat-band of the hat, were the initials “R.M.”
    “Jeepers!” Trixie said. “Gosh! Now, if those just happen to be the initials of one of those men! Did either of you hear Mr. Gorman say their names?”
    “I didn’t,” Jim said.
    “Neither did I,” Honey answered.
    “Then let’s find out,” Trixie shouted.
    As fast as they could run, the three Bob-Whites dashed down Army Post Road, turned in at Happy Valley Farm, and burst into the kitchen, waving the old battered hat.
    “What on earth?” Mrs. Gorman gasped.
    “What’s the excitement?” Mart and Brian and Diana wanted to know.
    “Call Mr. Gorman in from the barn!” Trixie begged. “Somebody, quick! ”
    Mrs. Gorman stepped outside the door and beat on the triangle hanging there. Mr. Gorman and Ben both came running from the barn.
    “Call the sheriff, Mr. Gorman,” Trixie said, the words falling over one another. “Ask him the names of the prisoners—hurry!”
    “What in the name of common sense—” Mr. Gorman began.
    “Don’t lecture, Hank,” Mrs. Gorman said quietly. “Just call the sheriff and do as Trixie asks.”
    “What’s it all about?” Mart asked. “Spill it, somebody.”
    “Why all the melodrama?” Brian asked. “Tell us, Trixie.”
    Trixie didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was too excited. She just pointed to Mr. Gorman and the telephone.
    It seemed to her that it took ages for him to dial the number. She could hear the sound of ringing. Will he ever answer? she thought.
    “Hello! Sheriff? Hank Gorman speaking. Say, Joe, what are the names of those men you picked up on the point?... Yes, the ones with the truckload of wool.... What did you say?... Jake Burton?”
    Trixie’s heart hit the ground.
    “And the other one?... Yes?... Oh, yes, I hear you... Raney Miller.”
    Trixie and Jim and Honey began to dance around the room singing “Glory, Glory Hallelujah!” at the tops of their voices.
    Mr. Gorman waved frantically, trying to quiet them.
    “Wait,” he said to the sheriff on the telephone. “Hold on a minute till I talk to these crazy hyenas.” He held the receiver to his chest and consulted with Trixie, smiled, and