The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

looking out over the bay, and I noticed a church steeple over in Green-point. It was lighted up with floodlights, just like the one back in Sleepyside. Later, I got to thinking it might be the one on the chart. Then I tried to remember where north is from there, and when I traced an imaginary line in the direction Ed had on the chart, it ended up at the yacht club.”
    “By Jove, Trixie, I believe you’re right!” exclaimed Peter. “You have the makings of a crack navigator. I think I’ll sign you up for my next trip to the South Seas. When we get to the club, we’ll look at the big map and see if your theory makes sense.”
    Cobbett’s Island Yacht Club was about a mile from The Moorings by car. It lay almost directly across the harbor from the house. It was an attractive, gray-shingled building, surrounded by a fence made of heavy chain supported by white posts.
    After they had parked the car, they went inside and looked for Cap, who Peter said had been delighted at the idea of going for a sail with them. Cap wasn’t in the clubhouse, so they had time to look at the large map of Cobbett’s Island, the bay, and Greenpoint. Trixie ran her finger slowly along the mainland coast and finally found a circle with a little dot in the middle and the word “spire” in tiny letters beside it. Peter, reaching over her shoulder, traced a line from that point to the yacht club and compared it to the markings on the chart, which Trixie had brought with her.
    “By Jupiter, Trixie’s right! The direction is southwest from the church,” cried Peter. “We’ll lay that landfall and go in as close to the shore as we can before heading for the next mark.”
    “You make about as much sense as Mart,” Diana said. “In plain English, what do we do?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Peter penitently. “I forget you’re new to all this nautical lingo. I meant we would head for the church and then follow the chart to—let’s see, what is the next mark?”
    “All it says is ‘Rock,’ ” answered Trixie.
    “It could be that submerged rock out there that they call ‘Black Cat,’ ” Peter conjectured. “The big boats have to steer clear of it, but we don’t have to worry about it in a Lightning, because it’s so far underwater, even at low tide.”
    As they strolled around the glassed-in porch, they noticed pictures of beautiful yachts that had belonged to some of the club’s older members. “This was Mr. Condon’s sloop,” said Peter, pointing to a large photograph on the wall. “It was a real winner in its day.”
    “Wouldn’t Mr. Condon sail from here, then, if this is where he moored his boat?” Trixie asked. “I’ll bet we’re on the right track at last!”
    “Come on, Trix, you mean the right course, don’t you?” Peter chided her, with a laugh.
    “Give me time, Peter. I’ll learn,” Trixie answered good-naturedly.
    There was still no sign of Cap, so they continued to explore the club, going into a cheerful room with comfortable chairs, a big fireplace, and a cabinet filled with cups and pennants. In the rear was a hall, its ceiling covered with striped canvas giving the appearance of a huge tent.
    “This is where we have dances, special events, and movies,” Peter explained.
    As they went outside and were walking toward the dock, Trixie said, “How about drawing lots to see who sails with whom? Is that all right, skipper?”
    “Sure thing. It’s a good idea. I was just trying to figure out how we might divide up,” Peter replied.
    Trixie picked up a pebble and a little scallop shell from the beach and held one in each hand behind her back. “The first three to pick the shell go with Peter and the others with Cap.”
    It fell to Trixie, Mart, and Di to go in Star Fire. The others would sail with Cap, who, at that moment, was running toward them down the dock.
    In contrast to Peter, Cap was short and dark. He was solidly built, like a football player, and he carried himself well. His hair was dark brown and would have been curly had it not been cut so short.
    “Cap, meet my friends from The Moorings,” Peter said, “Honey, Trixie, and Diana. And these new deckhands are Jim, Brian, and Mart,” he added with a smile.
    “Sorry I’m late, Pete. Hi, everybody. Glad to have you on the island, even for only ten days. Pete told me all about you last night when he phoned.”
    They boarded a small powerboat operated by a young man in trim white trousers and shirt. Peter explained that the