The Mysterious Code

me a song,
Trixie,” Bobby said. “This desk is sorta heavy.”
    “Pull it up farther
on your lap, Bobby,” Trixie said, “over your knees.”
    Then she sang at the
top of her voice, “Over the river and through the woods....” Bobby joined in
the chorus. It was silent and near dark in the big woods, and their voices
echoed back.
    “That’s enough of
that singing!” a voice called out to them, and Trixie stopped, frozen in
fright. Three men came through the undergrowth and stopped in her path. Their
faces were covered with stocking tops drawn tight to distort their features.
    Bobby thought it was
great fun. “Robbers!” he cried. “I’ll get you!” He made a snowball to throw at
them.
    “Cut it out, kid!”
one of the men said. “We ain’t playin’. We mean business.”
    As he spoke, the
other two seized the sled, upset the desk and Bobby, then dragged the sled and
desk off through the woods.
    “I couldn’t hold
onto it, Trixie,” Bobby cried, tears mixing with the snow that covered his
face. “They stealed your desk! Honest, I couldn’t hold onto it.”
    “Never mind, honey,”
Trixie said. She was trembling so she could hardly speak, but her first thought
was of her young brother. “Let Trixie brush you off, lamb,” she said. “Don’t
cry. Spider will catch those bad men. There now, I’ll just put you down on the
path. You’ll have to walk now, Bobby, and we’ve still a long way to go.”
    Trixie was angry,
bitterly angry at the three thieves who had robbed them. “Spider will get
them,” she promised Bobby.
    “I’m cold, Trixie,”
the little boy said. “An’ it’s dark a’most. Are we losted?”
    “No, honey. Take my
hand. Left foot! Bight foot! Left foot! Right foot! Marching! Marching!” Bobby
kept up sturdily for a while, then his steps slowed.
“I—just—can’t—walk—anymore,” he said, and he sat down in the snow.
    “Try just a little
harder, Bobby,” Trixie urged. “See, through the trees, that’s Glen Road ahead.”
    “I can’t see
anything, Trixie. I’ll just sit here and rest,” Bobby said and settled down
into the deep snow.
    “No, Bobby, we have
to hurry home. Those men may still be around the woods. I’ll carry you.” Trixie
was so worried she hardly noticed his weight. She was afraid he would be sick,
he was so tired and chilled.
    Trixie was tired,
too; very, very tired when she finally came to the path that led to Glen Road.
    There, to her great
relief, she saw Brian and Mart coming down the road. Mrs. Belden, concerned
with the lateness and approaching dark, had sent the boys to meet them.
    At home Bobby was
given a warm, comforting bath and put to bed. Trixie had a hard time calming
down enough to tell her story.
    With great
difficulty she, Mart, and Brian kept their father from going off to the police
in Sleepy-side.
    “Don’t you see,”
Trixie said, “if we make a big fuss about the oak desk, a lot of other people
may find out about the things in Mrs. Vanderpoel’s house and break in... and
they may break into the clubhouse.”
    “She’s right, Dad,”
Brian insisted. “Spider will help us find out who stole the desk. He probably
knows about the gang already....”
    “See that you get in
touch with Spider tomorrow, then,” Mr. Belden said. “I’ll check with him when I
see him.”
    “Oh, Daddy, please
don’t do that,” Trixie begged. “Let us Bob-Whites handle it with him, won’t
you? After all, it’s our show.”
    “And you want to be
self-sufficient,” Mr. Belden said. “I’m always telling your mother to let you
manage your own affairs. I guess I’d better take some of my own advice.”
    It was left that
way.
    The next morning
Bobby had a bad cold. For days his temperature ran high, and the doctor said
Bobby had pneumonia. He was a very sick boy, so sick that it drove every
thought of anything else out of the minds of the Belden family.

Foreign Intrigue • 8
     
    With good medicine and his mother s
careful nursing, Bobby grew better. While he had been critically ill, it had
been hard for the Bob-Whites to turn their attention to their work.
    Trixie had, however,
gone with the Wheelers’ chauffeur, Tom, back to Mrs. Vanderpoel’s to bring out
the other furniture she said they could have— the furniture that needed to be
repaired.
    Trixie did not tell
Mrs. Vanderpoel what had happened to the desk. She was ashamed to tell and, too,
she hoped they would recover it soon. She would wait a little longer