The Mystery at Bob-White Cave

thinned out to scrub oak underbrush. The road widened, and the mules, sure of rest soon, showed greater evidence of life.
    “We didn’t see anything but the railroad station when we were here before,” Trixie said, delighted. “The buildings are just like those on TV Westerns, aren’t they?”
    “I’ll bet the place gets pretty wild on Saturday nights, doesn’t it?” Mart asked Linnie.
    “Linnie’s probably never been in town on a Saturday night in her life,” Uncle Andrew said, answering Mart’s question. “I can tell you, though, that White Hole Springs is quieter by far than Sleepyside or any other small town in Westchester County.”
    “It’s just like a stage setting,” Trixie insisted. “There’s the barbershop and the bank and—”
    “This is the store,” Linnie said. “I love to come to town.” She stopped the mules, and the boys tied them to a hitching post, watered them, and put on their feed bags.
    Inside the store, a tall man with stooped shoulders and a friendly smile greeted them. “He’s Mr. Owens, the man who owns the store,” Linnie explained.
    Uncle Andrew shook hands and introduced the Bob-Whites. “Sam’s not only the proprietor of the store,” he explained, “but he’s also postmaster, sheriff, and part-time schoolteacher. He even does some doctoring.”
    “Jeepers!” Trixie said.
    Mr. Owens ruffled her sandy curls. “It sounds like something, but it’s a barrel of nothing,” he said. “I’ve got a parcel of mail for you kids. Follow me.”
    He went behind a wicket labeled UNITED STATES POST OFFICE.
    “It seems like your mom misses all of you,” he said, _ examining each piece of mail before relinquishing it. “Your brother Bobby wants you to come back home.” Trixie’s eyes widened.
    “Oh, I always read the postcards. It’s part of my compensation. There’s someone else here from your state, stopping over at the motel on the edge of town.”
    “There is?” Trixie exclaimed. “Do you know his name? Is he a magazine editor?”
    “Nosy as I am, I don’t know the answer to that one. He wears glasses, if that helps.”
    “May we go right over and talk with him?” Trixie asked her uncle.
    “And tell him what?” Brian asked matter-of-factly. “That you want dibs on coming up with the fish he wants?”
    “We don’t really have anything to say to him, do we?” Trixie said, deflated.
    “We can do some scouting around and find out if he is from the magazine,” Jim offered helpfully.
    “I have to go to the lumberyard to order some lumber for that new room I’m going to build,” Uncle Andrew said. “Then we’ll go over to the motel for lunch. They have a restaurant there, and maybe the man who runs the motel will be able to tell us something.”
    “Like as not he won’t,” Mr. Owens said, his eyes twinkling. “He’s the closemouthed kind. Me, I’m the bigmouthed one. What can I do for you?”
    When they had bought nylon ropes, carbide lamps, short, thick candle's, a box of kitchen matches, some small waterproof bags, first aid kits, and a sharp pickax, Uncle Andrew decided that the high leather boots they had brought from home would be adequate. “If a snake gets to you with those on,” he said, “it’ll have to hold the high jump record for snakes.”
    The store smelled of kerosine, licorice candy, gingersnaps in an open barrel, and new leather boots that dangled from a line above their heads. There were only a few other people in the store, and they stood politely watching the Bob-Whites. As the bundle of purchases grew, it was too much for one weatherbeaten old woodsman. “What in thunder are they going to do with all that stuff?” he asked the storekeeper.
    “They’re going to do some cave exploring.”
    “There ain’t a cave around here big enough to carry all that stuff into,” the old man said. “And if there was, they might meet up with the devil himself. Better keep out of caves!” He waved a bony finger.
    “Say, Pop, don’t spoil my sales,” Mr. Owens said. “Maybe that’s what we’ve been needing around here —new blood that isn’t frozen by all the scare stories about this country. Maybe we’ve got us a Mammoth Cave nearby, like the one they’ve got over in Kentucky, and these kids will find it. Good luck, young ones!”
    “It’s mostly Trixie’s idea,” Jim said. “She’s pretty famous as a detective in Westchester County, New York.”
    The men burst out laughing and slapped their