The Mystery at Saratoga

himself into a sitting position and massaged his wrists and flexed his ankles. Trixie and Honey waited impatiently, knowing that he couldn’t untie them until some feeling returned to his own hands, but wishing that he would hurry. Finally he turned his attention to the two girls, and soon they, too, were massaging their wrists, rejoicing over their freedom.
    “Why are we standing in here?” Trixie asked. “I want some fresh air!” She walked unsteadily to the back of the trailer and jumped out, falling to the ground as her still-numb legs gave way under her. Rolling over on her back, she raised her arms over her head and breathed in the clean, fresh air. Then, opening her eyes, she gasped, “It’s daylight!” The sun was, indeed, well over the eastern horizon. Honey, Trixie, and Regan exchanged panic-stricken glances. They were free—but where were they?
    “We’ll just have to start walking in some direction—any direction—and hope that we see a road sign that tells us where we are,” Regan said.
    “We were moving for a long time,” Honey said hopelessly. “It could take us hours to get back to town on foot.”
    “Then we’ll flag down a car,” Trixie said, jumping to her feet and wincing as her stiff muscles protested. “The main thing is to get going. We have to get back to town before the race.”
    The tired threesome limped down the long driveway and out onto a gravel road. Trixie’s muscles ached, she felt hot and dirty, and for the first time, she was noticing how hungry she was. Taking a deep breath, she resolved not to complain. Honey and Regan are depressed enough already, without my making them feel worse, she thought.
    The gravel road eventually led to a two-lane blacktop, with a sign that said, “Saratoga, 10 miles.” The three stared at the sign, and then Honey burst into tears, collapsing at the side of the road. “I—I can’t walk ten more miles. I just can’t!” she sobbed.
    Completely dispirited, Trixie sat down beside Honey and put her arm around her friend. “I don’t think I can, either. Regan?” she queried, looking up at the redheaded groom.
    As if in answer, he sank down on the road beside them. “Sure, I can walk ten miles,” he said. “But the way I feel right now, I’d need about three days to do it. Since we don’t have three days, we might just as well wait right here and hope that someone comes by—someone trusting enough to pick up three dusty, dirty strangers on a deserted road miles from town, at about eight o’clock in the morning.”
    They sat and waited, but no cars went by. Finally, a dusty pickup truck came down the road, and the three stood up and waved frantically at it. The driver glanced at them, but he didn’t slow down.
    Trixie blinked back tears as she threw herself back down on the ground. Nobody will stop , she thought, at least not in time. “I don’t even care if we save Gadbox anymore,” she wailed. “I just want a shower, and some breakfast, and a long, long nap!”
    Just then they heard the sound of a car coming down the road. “It’s coming from the wrong direction,” Honey said.
    “That doesn’t matter. If we get a ride somewhere, we can use a phone to call the track officials,” Regan pointed out.
    “They won’t stop, anyway,” Honey said, her spirits too low for her to try to think positively.
    Trixie was staring intently at the station wagon that was approaching, and suddenly she was on her feet, dragging Honey up with her. “This car will stop, Honey!” she exclaimed. “I know it will!”
    She began to jump up and down and wave her arms, and Honey, after a closer look at the car, began to wave and shout.
    The car that skidded to a halt on the deserted road was the Bob-White station wagon, and as soon as it stopped, out piled Brian, Jim, Mart, and a big, burly young man with a pleasant, good-natured face.
    “That’s Johnny!” exclaimed Regan. “He’s the guy who pawned my boots for me,” he explained to the girls.

Danger at the Racetrack • 16

    FOR THE NEXT several minutes, confusion reigned as everyone hugged and shouted at once. Finally, Mart Belden’s piercing whistle split the air, startling the others into silence.
    “The repatriation of our prodigal siblings is indeed an occasion that is cause for jubilation,” he said. “But in order to terminate the anguish of a quartet of timorous elders, I suggest that we depart for Saratoga posthaste.”
    “Oh, Mart, have you talked to my