The Red Trailer Mystery

grapes that I bottled myself last year. You must help us drink it up."
    "We’d love to," Trixie said. "But I’m not sure we’ll have time. We have to ride to Rushkill Farms and then—"
    "Rushkill Farms!" Mrs. Smith interrupted. "Why, that’s much too far for you girls to ride in this heat. Oh, dearie me, if only I had a hired hand or could spare Nat, I’d send you over in the small truck. Whatever are you going to do at a boys’ camp? You won’t receive a hearty welcome, I can tell you right now.
    They’re very strict about visitors. I ought to know. I drove over there once, when I could still wedge myself behind a steering wheel, looking for a lost calf. The man who runs the camp is about as disagreeable a creature as I ever had the misfortune to come across."
    Trixie glanced at the clock over the stove and saw that it was almost eight. "I’ve got to hurry," she said. "Honey’s governess will be worried about me. I left a note saying I’d gone for a walk, but I thought I’d be back before they woke up."
    "Then run along, lamb," Mrs. Smith said. "And try to come back for tea. Nat and I can’t eat that cake all by ourselves, and tomorrow is my pie day. Every Wednesday I make lemon chiffon pie. Nat’s mother always did, and so I have to live up to her reputation." She chuckled, her own cheerful self again, as she waved good-bye to Trixie.

The Lookout • 10

    TRIXIE HURRIED down the highway to the Autoville road. She had stayed at the Smith farm much longer than she had expected to and was worried for fear Miss Trask would be cross over her long absence. Miss Trask seldom scolded, but nervous as she had grown since the trailer thefts, anxious to return theirs to the safety of the Wheelers’ garage, she might feel annoyed that Trixie had added to her worries.
    As she trudged along, Trixie tried to organize her jumbled thoughts. The Darnells had left suddenly in the night. An album locket was missing. But money and valuable silver had been left behind.
    "I'll talk it all over with Honey," she decided out loud, "while we ride to Rushkill Farms. Mrs. Smith gets me so mixed up when she rambles on and on I just can’t think. I’ll let Honey try to figure it all out." When she arrived at the Swan, she found everything in confusion. The dogs were racing in and out of the open door, daubs of boiled-over cereal covered the top of the stove, and flies were everywhere. But there was no sign of either Miss Trask or Honey.
    Trixie stared about her in bewilderment. What could have happened to them? They had obviously left the trailer in a frightful hurry. Why?
    Trixie shut the door and began swatting flies. Reddy and Bud promptly settled down in front of their empty bowls and looked at her hopefully with mournful eyes.
    "Didn’t anybody feed you?" she asked, opening a can of dog food and adding it to the scorched cereal. She stirred in some bacon fat and set the mixture in front of the hungry dogs. Then she put the empty cereal pan in the sink and filled it with cold water. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed that somebody had knocked over a package of baking soda on the drainboard. "Baking soda," she said, puzzled. "What on earth were they doing with baking soda at this time of the morning? Not biscuits, because I remember Miss Trask complaining last night that Regan had forgotten to buy flour."
    And then she knew. A solution of baking soda and warm water was one of the best things to use on bums. Somebody had been burned. She stared at the scorched pan in the sink. Boiling cereal could cause one of the worst kind of bums. How had it happened, and who had been hurt?
    As though in answer to her inner questions, Honey called from the door, "Trixie, Trixie, are you back?"
    Trixie hurried out of the galley. Behind Honey was Miss Trask, holding her bandaged right hand against her chest. "I’m a clumsy idiot." She smiled. "Yanked the cover off that pot that sticks and knocked scalding cereal all over myself."
    "It was a nasty bum and terribly painful," Honey added: "I made her go right over to the camp first-aid station."
    Miss Trask’s normally tanned face was quite pale, and she sat down on one of the bunks, trying hard to disguise how much her hand hurt. "It’s an ill wind," she said cheerfully, "that blows nobody good. The doctor said I couldn’t possibly drive a car for a few days. So now you two have lots more time to look for Jim."
    "Oh, Miss Trask," Trixie cried sympathetically, "I’m so sorry. You