The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

away the tedium during our incarceration?”
    Before anyone could answer, Celia came in carrying a platter heaped with huge steaks. “The electricity is off,” she announced cheerfully, “so if you want to eat, I guess you’ll have to broil your steaks in the fireplace.”
    “Wonderful!” cried Trixie. “We’ll pretend we’re cavemen roasting our prime dinosaur steaks.”
    “And I’ll be the prehistoric genius who discovers catsup.” Jim laughed as he took the platter from Celia. “Food will while away Mart’s tedium, or I miss my guess.”
    “Some genius had better discover some light around here,” said Brian. “It’s getting darker by the minute, and it’s not even six o’clock.”
    “I noticed some old lamps in the barn when we were looking for a stretcher,” said Jim. “Perhaps they’ll work.” When he had brought two of them into the library, they found that, although the lamps were old, they were well filled with kerosene, the wicks had been trimmed neatly, and the chimneys were bright and clean.
    “Someone must have been through this kind of weather before,” said Trixie as she touched a match to the wick and watched the flame brighten. They got more lamps from the barn and took one pair to the back of the house. Another pair they kept to use at bedtime.
    The fire had burned down to a bed of bright coals. Jim arranged the andirons to accommodate the grill that Tom had brought in, and Honey, using a long-handled fork, laid the steaks on it. While they were broiling, the Bob-Whites set places around the fire with the plates and silver Celia gave them.
    “I think eight minutes on a side will be enough,” said Honey, enjoying her role as cook. “That’s what your father said when we had that cookout at your house, Trixie.”
    “Don’t ask me, Honey,” said Trixie, giggling. “You know how much I don’t know about cooking.”
    “You can say that again,” chimed in Mart, always ready to needle his sister, whom he really admired. “Her recipe for toast is to let it cook until it smokes and then scrape off the black!”
    “Maybe she’s not the best cook in the world, but you can’t say she’s not tops when it comes to solving really tough cases,” said Jim, looking fondly at Trixie, who,
    for her part, was awfully glad the heat of the fire gave a good excuse for what she knew was a very red face.
    “Can we trust you to take steaks out for Miss Trask and the others?” Honey laughed as she handed the plate to Mart.
    “Are you, perchance, casting aspersions on my honesty?” asked Mart, sniffing the steak and rolling his eyes in anticipation.
    “No, we’re just testing your willpower,” Di answered.
    “On my honor as a Bob-White, I won’t touch it, but you’ve got to promise not to start partaking of this sumptuous repast until I get back.”
    “It’s a deal,” they chorused, “but hurry; we’re all starved!”
    After eating her fill of steak, rolls, salad, cookies, and glass after glass of milk, Trixie, who had resumed her position in front of the fire, said, “I’ll tell you what might be fun. Let’s see if we can find a good book, and we’ll take turns reading it aloud. There must be something here that will be interesting, although I must say most of those tomes look awfully dull, if you can judge by their bindings.” She got up and started to browse through the shelves, pulling out first one book and then another. “How would you like to have me regale you with A History of English Criticism? Or maybe you’d prefer this fascinating volume on how to grow wine grapes.”
    “Here’s a possibility,” said Jim, who had joined her. “It’s Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast. I know it’s a true sea story, and it might be just the thing for a night like this,” he added as he took the book over to the table to get better light.
    As he riffled through the pages, an envelope dropped out. Trixie picked it up. “Jeepers,” she said, “it looks like a letter, Jim.” As the other Bob-Whites quickly gathered around the table, Trixie added, “Do you think we should read it? You know I can never resist investigating such things.”
    “Oh, this is so old it won’t matter,” said Brian. “Look how yellow the envelope is. Go on, Trixie, start reading it, and if it turns out to be a gushy love letter or something like that, we can put it back.”
    “All right, but I feel kind of funny about it,” she said. She pulled the letter out of the envelope and