The Mystery of the Castaway Children

guided Susie into the silent barn. She was just about to dismount, when to her horror, something swished past her head.

A Goat Named Nancy ● 10

    AFTER A STARTLED INSTANT, Trixie realized that she’d disturbed a bat, which had moved past her into the dim heights of the loft. Once her heart had stopped pounding and her eyes had grown used to the darkness, she also realized that the bat was the only living thing housed in the barn. There was no pony and no small boy, although there was evidence that the Shetland had been there.
    Trixie spent a long time riding in and out among the trees and bushes surrounding the ruins. Finding nothing, but sure she was on the right track, she eventually headed back to the Manor House stables. Honey, Jim, Mart, and Brian were already there.
    “Di rode Sunny home, and Dan had to go back to work,” Brian told Trixie gloomily. “None of us found a thing.”
    “Trixie, you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Mart accused. “Or should I say the shamus that swallowed the Shetland?”
    Honey eyed her partner. “Trixie, you did find something.”
    Eyes shining, Trixie told about the tracks she had found at the bam. “I think Davy and Wicky use it as a hideaway. Maybe they go back there at night,” she finished.
    “Could be,” agreed Jim.
    “Well, there’s only one way to prove it,” Brian declared. “The thing to do is to explore the Frayne place after dark. If we do it tonight, we might not have to backtrack on checking out the milk supply.”
    “Have dinner with us so we can get an early start,” Honey urged.
    Trixie began an objection. “Oh, but I’m so hot and dusty.”
    “Okay, let me change that invitation,” Jim said. “How about a shower, then dinner?”
    “You’re out of luck, Jim,” Mart put in. “My sister has a proclivity toward thunderstorms, not showers, as a means of expunging dirt.”
    “Ah, now I remember,” teased Jim. “Rather primitive, I think, yet effective. I mean, she seldom looks as bad as she does now.”
    “Speak for yourself!” Trixie sputtered.
    “I think we all need showers,” Honey spoke up tactfully.
    The others laughingly agreed, and by the time they joined Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler and Miss Trask for dinner, the five were scrubbed till they shone. They were hungry, too.
    “Sheer luxury!” Trixie gloated. “No dishes to wash.”
    No discussion with Dad about auctions, either, she thought ruefully a second later. Maybe, just maybe, there would turn out to be no need for that talk.
    A beautiful sunset was beginning to spill across the sky by the time the young people finished their strawberry tortes and dashed outside to the Bob-White station wagon. Jim guided the big car through the tall dry weeds around Ten Acres without mishap. A thorough search of the grounds on foot made it clear that the abandoned property hid neither Davy nor a pigeon-toed pony.
    “Nothing like getting tangled up in cobwebs right after a shower,” Jim grumbled good-naturedly as they returned to the station wagon.
    “Well, that’s an hour wasted,” sighed Brian.
    “The clock upbraids me with the evanescence of hours,” Mart intoned.
    “Oh, Mart, cut the gibberish,” Trixie pleaded. “We’ve got to figure out where Dodgy would have got his milk.”
    “I know,” Mart said soberly. “I’m just trying not to have a nervous breakdown in the meantime. What about Lytell’s store? Seems like a logical place to start.”
    “Davy could have bought some with the money from the piggy banks,” Honey agreed.
    Jim suggested stopping in at the houses between Ten Acres and the store, but at none of them had anybody been asked to fill a baby’s milk bottle.
    Mr. Lytell was the neighborhood gossip. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his pale eyes brightened with curiosity at Trixie’s query about a small boy buying milk. “Would that have something to do with that baby up at your house?” he asked.
    “Sort of,” Trixie answered noncommittally.
    The storekeeper shrugged. “Can’t say. A lot of people buy milk here.”
    Trying not to become discouraged, Trixie returned to the car and recommended checking at Glen Road Inn next. There they found Ella Kline enjoying the evening coolness on the lawn, her wheelchair parked near a hedge of lilac bushes. She waved and called to them. After greetings were exchanged, the pretty seamstress reached for Trixie’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to call you—I found out about that fly sheet.”
    Mart smote