The Mystery at Bob-White Cave

said. “They’re just like homing pigeons. A guy at school told me that when the Pennsylvania turnpike was being built, a bat colony that had lived there for years just wouldn’t leave. Workmen moved them to a nearby cave so smooth cement walls could be put in the old tunnel, but the bats kept flying back to roost in their old lodgings each night.”
    “I’ve had enough; of bats for one day,” Mart said. “Maybe you can continue your research some other time.”
    “Yes, please!” Honey begged.
    Trixie had left the group and was crouched at the edge of the stream, her eyes searching the shallow water. “Finally we can hunt for the ghost fish,” she said.
    The other Bob-Whites walked carefully up and down the length of the stream that flowed through the big room. Once they saw another cricket on the rocks, and once Mart was sure he saw the flash of a white tail disappear under the rock where the stream left the room.
    “We’re just going to have to follow that stream,” Trixie announced. “There must be some way we can do that. There’s only a trickle of water here, and maybe in another part of the cave there’s a real spring. I intend to find out.”
    “I saw a kind of funnel opening midway on this side of the wall,” Mart said. “Do you suppose....”
    Trixie was on her feet. Her light shining a short distance ahead of her, she followed the wall till she found a small opening.
    “It’s easy to crawl through here,” she announced.
    “Here I go!”
    Before anyone could speak, she lay flat on the ground and wriggled into the passage. Mart was close after her. “There’s plenty of room,” he called back.
    “I can even see the opening ahead,” Trixie’s muffled voice announced. “Come on in, all of you!”
    Brian had already entered the crawlway. Honey slid along after him, followed by Jim.
    The passage, only about fifteen feet long, led to a room smaller than the one they had left. Here, however, they heard the rush of running water from a spring.
    The ceiling was domed, exposing a dozen different strata—brown, orange, yellow, white, and a deep layer of black. The dome had the appearance of an upside-down pothole worn by some long-ago stream that had rushed with terrific force down through the cavern.
    The floor was covered with fragments of limestone that had scaled from the dome and fallen to the cave floor. Iron, brought in by dripping water, had colored fantastic flowers and fernlike spirals that protruded from the wall and ceiling. Huge stalactites hung down, constantly dripping water that formed thick stalagmites or rimstones that cradled nests of calcite balls. It was a lovely fairyland, sparkling and scintillating under the searching lights of the Bob-Whites.
    Trixie, usually sensitive to beauty, was so engrossed with her search for the fish that she didn’t see the rock formations around her. Her hand clasping Honey’s, she walked along the side of the stream.
    Suddenly she let out a whoop, dropped to her knees, and brought up a ghost fish!
    Mart came stumbling over the rough floor. Brian and Jim tore themselves from a study of the stratified dome to answer Trixie’s cry.
    “It’s a fish! It’s a fish! What shall I do with it? Where shall I put it? Oh, why didn’t I bring the bait bucket?”
    “Hold tight, Trixie, and I’ll run for the bucket!” Jim said and vanished through the tunnel.
    Trixie had the agonizing experience of watching a crayfish crawl by, followed by its ghostly brother, and still another before Jim returned.
    Into the bait bucket went the fish. Then Trixie bent earnestly over the water. She snared a crayfish and added it to her catch. Concentrate as she would, though, not another ghost fish appeared.
    The other Bob-Whites, eager to help, struggled over the wet clay, straining their eyes. Finally Brian announced, “It’s almost five o’clock. We’d better go. Uncle Andrew’ll be concerned if we don’t show up soon.”
    “Oh, Jim, what shall I do with my ghost fish and my crayfish?” Trixie asked.
    “I think it’ll be better to leave the bucket right here, don’t you, Brian?”
    “Nobody asked me,” Mart piped up. “Nobody thinks I know anything about cave fish. Any amateur spelunker would know that the specimens are more likely to survive captivity if they are kept in an environment to which they are inured.”
    “In other words, leave them here in the cave till tomorrow?” Trixie asked.
    “Mart’s right,” Jim said. Brian agreed. So