The Mystery at Mead's Mountain

found satisfaction in working for what she had, and she appreciated the Bob-Whites’ policy of each member’s contributing to the club only money that he or she had earned.
    She felt so lucky to have the nicest family and the best friends in the entire world. And on top of all that, there was always another mystery waiting to be solved. Maybe Mr. Wheeler’s surprise would lead to still another... if she could just get Moms to let them go for dessert.

    By the time Trixie joined the Bob-Whites at their usual table in the cafeteria, they had almost finished eating and were busy speculating about Mr. Wheeler’s surprise.
    “Pray tell, lunchless lady, what tidings thou bearest,” hailed Mart, who loved to use fancy language to tease his sister. “Not that you’ll be lunchless for long,” he added dryly.
    “If you mean ‘what’s the news,’ I can tell you the news is good,” retorted Trixie between bites of her tuna fish sandwich. “Moms says okay for dessert— and for dinner, too!”
    Amid the Belden boys’ cheers, Trixie continued, “Moms got more done today than she thought she would, so we just have to help with some last-minute things. We’ll have to help right up until dinner, though. So the ride is out. Moms didn’t have any idea what Mr. Wheeler’s surprise is. Do you, Jim?”
    “Not even a notion, but the only way to find out is to wait and see,” he said philosophically, looking at Honey’s apple wistfully. “Sisters sure come in handy, don’t they?” he observed after Honey motioned that she’d had enough to eat.
    “Hmmm,” Trixie mused, lost in thought, “this is all very mysterious, isn’t it?”
    “Nothing’s mysterious about having a handy sister, just lucky,” gibed Mart, eyeing Trixie’s apple. “I myself am not that lucky, cursed as I am with an ever-ravenous kinswoman.”
    Trixie took a deliberately noisy bite out of her apple. “I don’t mean about sisters, birdbrain,” she said, “I mean about Mr. W 7 heeler’s surprise.”
    “Maybe we’d better quit thinking about that for now and get down to something more urgent—our Bob-White car,” Brian said. “In case you’ve all forgotten, the first of the year is coming up, which means our car insurance payment is due.”
    “Ouch,” remarked Mart, who was the treasurer of the club. “Our coffers are unlikely to withstand the strain of buying a postage stamp to mail the payment, much less buying the insurance itself!”
    “We’ll just have to earn some money,” Trixie said. “Christmas vacation is coming up. We’ll have to find work.”
    “If you keep eating like that,” teased Mart, “you’ll make a fine department-store Santa Claus, minus the beard.”
    “Cut it out, Mart,” said Trixie. “There’s got to be lots of odd jobs we could do.”
    “Nothing that would bring in as much money as we need,” Mart argued. “Let’s be realistic...
    “Knock it off, you two,” Jim broke in. “But Mart’s right, Trixie. It would take a long time to earn as much as we need doing odd jobs.”
    The bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. “Things will work out,” Trixie insisted, finishing up her apple. “They always do when we set our minds to it.”
    “Personally, I don’t think there’s anything we can do but sell the car,” said Brian seriously.
    “We can’t let that happen!” cried Di.
    “Maybe Daddy will give us the money,” Honey suggested. “We just can’t lose the Bob-White car!”
    “Honey, you know the club rule about contributing only money we earn ourselves,” Jim reminded her.
    “One thing is sure,” Dan put in. “If we sold the car, we’d have enough for the insurance.”
    “I think we’re too upset to think straight,” Jim decided. “Why don’t we just let it simmer in the back of our minds till tonight? After Dad finishes talking with us, we can have a special Bob-White meeting to sort everything out.”
    The others agreed that was a good idea and then hurried off to their classes.

    All during dinner that evening, Mr. Wheeler kept from mentioning his surprise and teasingly changed the subject whenever someone else mentioned it. Finally, after a delicious dessert of French pastries, the Bob-Whites, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, and Miss Trask, the manager of the Wheeler household, all settled into comfortable chairs in the living room.
    “Mmmm,” Mart groaned, patting his stomach, “that roast venison from your game preserve was the pièce de résistance of