The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

home yesterday. All we need is another jalopy around here! And Mart is still up at the Wheelers’ talking about the trip. We knew we could count on your letting us go, but do you think Dad will agree?”
    “That was the ‘if’ I was about to mention,” said her mother, “but I’m sure that if this expedition doesn’t cost too much, he will let you go.”
    “Oh, it won’t cost much,” Trixie quickly assured her mother. “Cobbett’s Island isn’t much more than three or four hours’ drive from here. You have to take a ferry from the mainland, and there’s fishing and sailing and a deserted lighthouse and....” Trixie was off again. “And I won’t need anything but my old blue jeans and those shirts we used for gym last year—and maybe a new bathing suit?”
    The last item mentioned was more question than statement of fact, and Mrs. Belden, obviously surprised, said, “Why, Trixie, don’t tell me you’re interested in getting something new for a change. Is my girl growing up?”
    “Could be,” answered Trixie thoughtfully. “Of course, I don’t know what I’d use for money. The yearbook and my class ring took all my extra cash,” she added, her face clouding. “What could I do?”
    Her question was left unanswered as she and her mother heard the familiar sound of the Belden Buggy as it turned into the driveway. The family station wagon had been christened the Buggy three years ago, when a queen bee had chosen its interior as a perfect place to swarm. It had taken Mr. Lawlor, the local bee authority, all day to capture her and put her in a new hive, where she was soon joined by her faithful followers.
    Bobby, Trixie’s little brother, who had been playing with his electric train in his room, came running down the stairs, out the door, and up the drive to meet his father. He was followed closely by Reddy, the friendly but undisciplined Irish setter, who was never far away from the little boy. Trixie brought up the rear.
    Mr. Belden had scarcely stepped out of the car before his children had thrown their arms around him, and Reddy began barking a joyful welcome. “Now, what have my pets been doing on their first vacation day? I wish banks closed for the summer, just like schools,” he said, “but when a bank closes, it’s a disaster, not a holiday.”
    “Gosh, Dad, do they ever have to close?” asked Trixie.
    Mr. Belden walked toward the house with an arm around each one. He explained that in the old days, before banks were insured by the federal government, they sometimes failed, and the people who had money in them lost all their savings. But now such a thing was almost impossible.
    Trixie thought of her college fund of fifty-nine dollars and seventy-two cents lying safe and sound in the bank; then she sighed contentedly. Smiling up at her father, she said, “Do you know what?”
    By now they had reached the kitchen door, where Mrs. Belden was waiting to greet her husband. Bobby, unconcerned about banks since his treasure of eight pennies was safely hidden in an old leather bag under his mattress, ran off to throw a big stick for Reddy to retrieve.
    “That’s just what she asked me, dear,” Trixie’s mother said, laughing, “and I must say you’ll have a hard time guessing the exciting news.”
    “We won’t make him guess,” said Trixie eagerly, and she told him about the wonderful invitation. As she saw her father glance at her mother, she hastened to add, “Moms thought you’d say we could go.”
    “Well, I think my girl deserves a vacation, and the boys do, too. You’ve all worked hard in school this year and kept your marks up, in spite of all the activities of the Bob-Whites, and you’ve seldom been unwilling to do the things your mother and I have asked you to do.” Trixie lowered her head to hide the flush she felt creeping into her cheeks, remembering several times lately when she had been asked to help with the dishes or clean her room and she had answered, “Oh, do I have to?” or “Do you mean right now ?” Housework she really detested, but she resolved to try hard to be more cheerful about such chores in the future. And when her father, on his way to the living room with his paper, planted a kiss on top of her head, her spirits quickly rose again, and she dashed to the phone to tell Honey that she and her brothers could go to the island.
    Honey’s real name was Madeleine, but, as a little girl, she had acquired the nickname because of her