The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

get back to the jungle,” said Brian. “We’ve got to finish cleaning up before we can do anything more about the letter.”
    As they passed The Moorings on the way back to Peter’s, Trixie said, “Let’s take just a few minutes off and see if we can figure out which building it is that lies between us and the chain tree.”
    “Okay,” said Peter as he headed into the driveway, “but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be as easy as it looks. Don’t forget, the trees have grown a lot higher and denser since that letter was written.”
    “What was it the letter said about the tree?” Mart asked.
    “I think it said halfway to the golden chain tree from the place where they used to sit,” Trixie replied.
    “How in the world can you tell where they’d sit, with porches on practically every side of the house?” asked Honey.
    “Well, my powers of deduction lead me to conclude that it couldn’t have been on the west side of the house, because you can’t even see Peter’s property from there,” said Trixie, leading them around the house. “Let’s see what we can see from the other side.”
    When they reached the porch on the east wing, Jim climbed onto the railing to get a better view. “If you stand here in the middle, you can just make out the chimney of the toolshed through the trees, but I can’t see the chain tree.”
    “It must be in that general direction, but we can’t tell for sure until we do a lot more clearing,” said Trixie.
    “We’d better get on with it, then,” said Diana, and they went back to Peter’s and to work.
    By dinner time, they had cleared as far as the gazebo and reluctantly called it a day. “We can easily finish up in another half day,” said Peter as they walked back toward his house. “So what say we take tomorrow morning off and look through the toolshed? I’ll bet anything it’s the place where the chart is hidden.”
    “I’m all for that plan. It will give my aching muscles a chance to get back to normal,” Brian said, rubbing his back dramatically. “Football was never like this!”
    “I don’t hear the girls complaining. What’s the matter with you? Getting old?” asked Jim.
    “Well, Mart and I were doing all the heavy work, pulling those tough old vines down. All you and Peter had to do was cut them,” Brian answered crossly.
    “Oh, come on, everybody,” said Honey. “We’re all tired, and we’re getting grumpy as bears. A good dinner and hot baths will revive us all—even you, Brian.”
    “Honey, you’re wonderful,” said Trixie, putting an arm around her friend. “You can always see what’s making us out of sorts and come up with a solution. You’re right; there’s nothing like food to restore our spirits. So long, Peter. See you in the morning.”
    “And speaking of food, tomorrow we’ll bring a picnic lunch to eat in the garden,” added Honey.
    As they started home, the sun was beginning to set, and as it sank below the horizon, the sky was aflame with constantly shifting rose and purple.
    “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” said Trixie as they turned into their driveway. “Tomorrow should be another perfect day!”

    The toolshed had originally been a summer kitchen, where, years earlier, the cooking and preserving for the family had been done, to keep the main house as cool as possible. Since the Kimballs had been living in the Oldest House, they had used the building for storing tools, screens, and storm windows. There was even enough space in the upper room for a kind of sail loft, where Peter could hang his sails to dry or store them during the winter months.
    The next morning, when the Bob-Whites arrived, Peter showed them through the little brick building. When they reached the upstairs room, he noticed that some of the sail bags, instead of hanging from the wooden pegs along the wall, had been taken down and were lying in a disorderly heap in one corner.
    “I’m sure I hung up all those bags last fall,” said Peter, scratching his head. “I remember distinctly that when we took the boat out of the water after the last race, Dad helped me fold the sails, stow them in the bags, and hang them up. Now, who the dickens could have taken them down, and why?”
    “Are any missing?” asked Trixie as she lifted one of the bags and read the words, HEAVY WEATHER MAINSAIL, stenciled on the side of the bag. “And this one next to it says ‘heavy weather jib.’ ”
    “You mean ‘mains’l,’ ” chuckled Peter.