The Marshland Mystery

Kidd buried a lot of his treasure in the swamp.”
    Trixie gasped. “Maybe we’ll find some of his loot!” Her father smiled. “Hardly possible. He was executed two hundred and fifty years ago, and I’m quite sure that since then at least two hundred and fifty treasure hunters have dug in that swamp, without finding anything but mud and frogs.”
    “Didn’t anyone find the least bit of pirate gold?” Trixie hated to give up.
    “Not a trace of it. And worse than that—” he paused and looked mysterious—“I’ve heard that some of the diggers saw Captain Kidd’s ghost flitting about through the marsh at midnight now and again. So you be sure to start for home before sundown.”
    “Br-r-r! We certainly will!” Trixie laughed. She knew that there was no such thing as a ghost and that her father was just joking.
    After her father left for the Maypenny garden, Trixie dashed out and did her chores, gathering the eggs and feeding the hens.
    When she brought in the eggs, her mother told her quickly, “I hear Bobby running around upstairs, dear. You’d better be on your way before he discovers you intend to desert him. You know what a fuss he’ll make.”
    “I’m on my way!” She snatched up the lunch basket, gave her mother a good-bye kiss, and was turning to go, when she remembered something. “Oh, I almost forgot! Did Brian tell you about the copperhead?”
    “Yes, dear. They went out and took care of him and two others. I don’t think we’ll be bothered the rest of the season.”
    “That’s fine.” Trixie was relieved. “Well, so long, Moms. We’ll be back early.” This time she got as far as the door before she stopped. “I sort of hate to run off and leave you with all the work and Bobby, too,” she said weakly.
    Mrs. Belden smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Bobby and I will be going over to Wheelers’ a little later. Gaye has promised Bobby a picture of herself, and I gave him my word at bedtime that I’d take him there this morning.” Trixie frowned. “Moms—” she started to say and then hesitated.
    Mrs. Belden could see that something was troubling Trixie. “What is it?”
    Trixie swallowed hard. “Moms, don’t you think Gaye is awfully spoiled? She was positively rude about my room. And she said our Bob-White jackets were corny.”
    “That’s only her opinion. Why should it worry you, dear? She’s just a little girl, hardly older than Bobby. And don’t forget that she leads a very different life from the one you girls and boys live here. I doubt that the poor child has a real home and friends her own age.”
    “Just the same,” Trixie said stubbornly, “she doesn’t have to be so snippy. And she says one thing and means something else—like pretending, sweet as pie, that she liked Bobby’s chameleon that he gave her and then telling me it was horrible.”
    Mrs. Belden smiled. “That’s what people call a ‘polite fib,’ dear. It isn’t quite honest, but I imagine Gaye didn’t want to hurt Bobby’s feelings by telling him how she really felt.”
    “Well”—Trixie frowned—“anyhow, she doesn’t have to be so la-di-da and turn up her nose at other people’s things.”
    “I’m sure she’ll get over that after she’s become used to you and Honey. The three of you will be friends in no time at all.” Her mother saw that Trixie was still looking stubborn and told her gently, “I’m expecting you to be kind to the poor little girl. Promise?”
    Trixie ran back to her mother and gave her a hug. “Oh, Moms! You can always find excuses for people, and then I realize I’m a monster. I’ll try to like Gaye. I promise.”
    “Good girl! Now run along, or Honey will think you’ve changed your mind about exploring the marsh.”
    The clubhouse door was open as Trixie pedaled along Glen Road to the foot of the Wheeler driveway. Trixie felt the thrill she always experienced when she looked at the neat little cottage with its well-trained wisteria and honeysuckle vines. And, as usual, she reflected that the Bob-Whites had done a good job of fixing up the old gatehouse. It had taken plenty of work, but it had been worth it.
    Trixie dismounted and went in. Jim was kneeling beside Honey’s bike, putting a tire on the rear rim. Honey, watching, was handing him the tools.
    “What happened?” Trixie asked quickly.
    “I picked up an old nail somewhere,” Honey explained, “but Jim’s putting one of his own tires on.”
    “Well, hurry it up.” Trixie