The Mystery of the Castaway Children

“When did you see him?” she asked breathlessly.
    “Last Monday or Tuesday—I’m not sure which —I found the pony playing tag with Nancy.” He nodded toward the goat. Hearing her name, Nancy stopped munching alfalfa and stepped forward daintily. The boy scratched her velvety ears while he talked.
    “The pony got his foot caught in a coil of heavy chain. I was trying to free him when a kid came rushing across the road to help me. He was awfully nervous about something. A couple of times, he ran back into the woods over there.” The teen-ager waved toward the trees of the game preserve. “He looked hungry, so I asked him if he’d like a cup of goat milk. He didn’t drink all of it. He asked if he could bring the cup back later. I told him sure, and if he wanted more, just to help himself.”
    “He knew how to milk?” Brian asked.
    “Sure, doesn’t everybody?” the boy asked, grinning.
    “Not I,” Brian said, “and I live on a farm. I just don’t happen to have a speaking acquaintance with a goat.” At that moment, the goat bunted Brian’s leg.
    “Now you have,” needled Mart. “Say how-de-doo!”
    The boy whizzed away on his bicycle, and Trixie sighed. “It’s too dark to search the woods now, but I’m certainly coming back tomorrow. Are you free, Honey?”
    “Wild horses couldn’t keep me at home,” Honey answered.
    “Mart and I have a lot of work on the farm tomorrow,” Brian said, “so that leaves us out.”
    “Regan’s tied up with dental checkups at the stables,” Jim said, “so I have to do the routine chores. It may be noon before I’m free to drive us here.”
    “We could ride Susie and Lady,” Honey ventured hesitantly.
    “That’s a pretty wild trail cutting through the heart of the preserve,” objected Jim.
    “We can bicycle,” Trixie declared sturdily. “But now let’s get home so we can get some rest first.” In the middle of a yawn, she remembered that Jim had left his bicycle at Crabapple Farm. “May I ride your ten-speed tomorrow, Jim?”
    Jim grinned. “Sure, just don’t get arrested for speeding.”
    Mart whooped, and Jim went on, “You think I’m kidding? Sergeant Molinson threatened to give me a speeding ticket if he ever caught me riding on a public highway the way we go down the bicycle trail.”
    When they got home, the young Beldens found their parents silently relaxing on the dark porch. Only the creaking of the porch swing betrayed their presence.
    Mrs. Belden went inside to mix the dough for the next day’s bread baking, and Brian and Mart soon followed her.
    Trixie slumped down on a porch step and began running clues through her mind.
    “You had a phone call from Molinson,” her father informed her. “Another note came, this time with instructions about leaving the money.” “How can they do that?” Trixie cried. “We have the baby, and Davy’s taking care of himself. We haven’t found one shred of evidence to indicate that a man’s been traveling with him.” Who could possibly be trying to collect twenty thousand dollars from the Dodges, a sum that would leave them practically bankrupt? Wait a minute, thought Trixie, jerking herself upright. There’s something awfully peculiar about that sum. It’s not a very large amount for a ransom, for one thing. For another thing, who would know that the Dodges managed to collect that amount at their auction? Jeepers, it has to be someone connected with the auction itself! Suddenly, she remembered that she hadn’t had a chance to ask her father about the auction process.
    “Dad,” Trixie pleaded, “will you tell me how an auction works, please?”
    Her father answered after a thoughtful pause. “Well, an auction is a pretty cut-and-dried affair, regulated by law. An auctioneer is bonded to ensure his honesty, and he pays for a license. He can be fined or have his license revoked if he doesn’t obey the law, so he has to be very careful about the clerks he hires.”
    “They’re the ones who keep the records?” asked Trixie.
    “Right. There’s an inventory list that shows what’s to be sold, and a sales record that lists what actually was sold. You see, a sale isn’t complete until the auctioneer says ‘Sold!’ and taps his desk with his gavel. A bid is an offer, but the drop of the gavel changes that bid to a contract. That means the seller has to sell and the buyer has to buy.”
    “What about fraud?” Trixie guessed shrewdly. Her feeling was mounting that there was