The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

commented Peter, “so it could have been here when Ed and Mr. C were alive. Good work, Trixie; let’s get going.”
    Everyone soon forgot the uncomfortable humidity and eagerly started out again behind the lily pool.
    “This is the longest leg of the course if the distances between marks on the chart mean anything,” Trixie commented.
    “And it’s the last one, thank goodness,” Honey added, “but there aren’t any dues to help us this time; just the word ‘Finish.’ ”
    “Any ideas, Pete?” Jim asked. “What are those buildings way down at the far end of the field, near the woods?”
    “The big gray one is the stable. The funny-shaped one on the right is the corncrib, and that one over there is the base of the old windmill. The wings got blown off before we came,” Peter said, pointing out the various structures.
    “Well, the stable is right plumb in our path if this compass is right, so we’ll have to look through it. But where do you start in a big old ark like that?” said Trixie, throwing up her hands in despair.
    “It’s like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” said Mart as they approached the stable.
    They pushed open the wide double doors to get as much light as possible and stepped into the murky interior of the old building. As their eyes got used to the half-light, they saw harnesses and halters still hanging on their pegs along one side, and in the back of the stable, Honey discovered an old sleigh.
    “Look at this adorable old sleigh,” she called to the others as she climbed in.
    Brian jumped in beside her and, pretending to take the reins, started to sing. “ ‘Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!’ ” The others joined in lustily.
    On the other side of the main room of the stable were the stalls, three for regular-sized horses, and another smaller one, which Jim guessed was for a pony or a colt. The names of the long-ago occupants were painted in quaint letters above the stalls: GALLANT BOY, DIAMOND, POPCORN, and over the fourth, NOËL.
    “I‘ll bet Noël was a Christmas present for one of your great-aunts or great-uncles,” mused Trixie. “I wonder what color she was.”
    “Look at this cute little food box in here, just high enough for a little pony to feed from,” called Diana, who had been looking around inside the smallest stall.
    “That’s called a manger, not a food box, silly.” Mart laughed. “It comes from the French verb manger, ‘to eat.’ ”
    “Okay, manger,” Diana answered good-naturedly. “Away in a manger, Noël ate her hay,” she sang, parodying the old Christmas carol.
    Just then Trixie let out a shriek and repeated the first bar. “Da-dum-da-da-dum-dum. Honey, wasn’t that the tune on the chart?” she asked breathlessly.
    When Honey and Mart whistled the melody again, it was obvious that Trixie was right. Dashing into the stall, she flashed the light into the manger and started pulling out the hay that still remained in it. She noticed that one of the boards on the bottom had two holes bored in it, and, sticking her fingers into them, she was able to lift it out easily. Underneath was a small black tin box!
    Everyone was so tense with expectancy that it was not until Trixie had gingerly carried the box over to the light and lifted the cover that anyone made a sound. But when they saw a neatly tied bundle of bills, their excitement erupted, and they whooped and hollered as they danced around the box on the floor.
    Their elation was abruptly cut short when they heard a loud thud and a voice yelling at them from the rear of the stable. “Okay, you guys, pipe down. Do you want the whole island to get wise?”
    Whirling around in the direction of the voice, they saw a sullen-looking boy advancing toward them, a gun in his hand. His face was distorted. His T-shirt was torn and filthy, and Trixie noticed, as her eyes swept from his head to his feet, that his arms and legs were badly scratched and that he was wearing dirty white sneakers.
    “Now, just line up there along the wall, sailors, and we’ll talk this whole thing over, like one big, happy family,” he continued with sarcastic politeness.
    Mart started toward him, fists doubled, but Peter, yelling, “Get back, all of you!” pushed him back before he had time to protest. The others silently lined up, as they had been ordered to. There seemed no alternative —not with a revolver covering them!
    “Attaboy, Pete,” snarled the stranger. “You’ve got sense