Frank always paid attention to the small details. You never knew when they might tell you something important. His father had taught him that. Mr. Hardy was a detective, and he always told Frank and Joe to keep a sharp eye out. A clue could be anywhere. The brothers had already solved one mystery, and they were on the lookout for another.
All of a sudden, a shout came from the other side of the field. “AAAAH!”
Frank jumped, spilling the contents of his cup everywhere. He turned around.
Jason was standing by the pile of the Bandits’ gear, screaming!
4
The Missing Mitt
Frank and Joe ran over to where Jason was standing. Seconds later, the rest of the team and Coach Quinn were there.
“What’s wrong, Jason?”
Jason didn’t answer Coach Quinn. He was red in the face. He kicked at the pile of gear.
“Tell us what happened, Jason,” said Coach Quinn.
“My mitt!” said Jason finally. “Someone stole my lucky mitt. I can’t play without it!”
The Jupiters heard the commotion and came over. Now both teams were there, surrounding Jason.
“Is everything all right?” asked Coach Riley, the leader of the Jupiters. “What’s going on?” He wasn’t very tall, but he sure had a loud voice!
“No!” yelled Jason. “One of your players stole my lucky mitt!”
There were shouts from the Bandits and the Jupiters. Some of the Bandits began shouting at the Jupiters to give back Jason’s glove. The kids started shoving one another. It looked like a fight was about to break out!
“Stop this right now, or I will cancel the game!” said Coach Quinn angrily. “Now, Jason, I’m sure no one stole your mitt. It’s probably just lost in the pile of gear here.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, trying to calm everyone down. “When did you last see your mitt?”
“Right before they got here,” said Jason, nodding his head at the Jupiters. “I tossed it on top of my bag, right over there, and then went to practice. The next time I looked over here, he was standing next to my bag!”
Jason pointed to Conor Hound.
“What?” asked Conor. “Are you calling me a thief ? I didn’t steal your dirty old mitt! I have my own.”
“Then why were you standing by my stuff ?” asked Jason.
“I was just trying to put my stuff away. I didn’t know which pile was ours. But I’m not a thief!”
“Yeah, right! You want to win this game so badly you’re willing to cheat!” yelled Jason.
As they spoke, Jason and Conor got closer and closer. Soon they were right next to each other, both angry and shouting. Joe ran in between them.
“Let’s look around,” said Joe. “Maybe your mitt got lost when other people put their stuff down.”
“Right,” said Frank. “I’ll start looking over here. Jason, why don’t you look over there?” Frank pointed as far away from Conor as possible.
“I don’t want to hear one word about people stealing,” said Coach Quinn. “Is that clear? We’ll find your mitt, Jason—but you can’t just accuse people of stealing.”
Jason nodded. He still looked angry, but he followed Joe over to the other side of the pile of players’ bags, bats, balls, and helmets.
Coach Riley called for the Jupiters to go with him.
“Everyone is going to empty out their bags,” said the coach. “And if I find Jason’s mitt anywhere, that person will be in big trouble. Is that understood?”
The Jupiters nodded and walked away.
“Oh, wow!” said Speedy. “Do you really think Conor took Jason’s mitt? What will we do if we can’t find it? Jason can’t play without it. That would be a disaster!”
Some of the other Bandits were nodding their heads.
“I bet he did take it,” said one.
“Yeah!” agreed another. “They’ll do anything to win.”
“Hey!” said Coach Quinn. “I won’t have any more talk like that. You will respect the other team.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the Bandits, but it didn’t look like everyone agreed with her.
“Good. Because if I catch anyone else accusing someone of stealing without proof, I’ll have to ask them not to play.”
With that, Coach Quinn walked away. Frank and Joe heard some of their teammates still whispering angrily. But they did it when Coach Quinn wasn’t looking.
The Bandits looked through all the gear. They turned bags inside out, looked under baseball caps, and even searched under the bleachers and over by the water cooler. Nothing. This wasn’t looking good.
Frank pulled Joe aside.
“Do you think Conor stole Jason’s glove?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Joe. “But it doesn’t seem to be here.”
Jason and some of their other teammates were huddled together, whispering to one another. Occasionally one would angrily point or look in the direction of Conor Hound.
If they didn’t find that mitt, Jason wouldn’t play. And if he didn’t play, the Bandits were definitely going to lose.
Frank and Joe had helped the owner of Fun World find some missing money at a video game contest recently. Maybe they could solve the mystery of what had happened to Jason’s mitt—before it was too late!
5
The Six Ws
While the rest of the Bandits continued to search for Jason’s glove, Joe and Frank went over to the bleachers. It was quiet there, so they could think.
“What should we do?” asked Joe.
“You know what Dad says. Start with the six Ws: What, When, Where, Why, Who, and How.”
Joe nodded, remembering that “how” always tripped him up as a W. But Frank had explained to him earlier—it did end in a W. Frank pulled out a pen and a small spiral-bound notebook from his back pocket. He wrote the words down in big letters on the paper.
WHAT?
Jason’s lucky mitt. It was a regular brown baseball glove, a little larger than most. It was old and beat-up looking.
“Do you think someone could have taken it by accident?” asked Joe. “Like, maybe they thought it was theirs?”
Frank thought for a second. “No,” he said. “It’s bigger than any of our mitts. And remember, it had ‘Winner’ stitched on it? As soon as someone saw that, they’d know.”
Joe took the notebook and drew the mitt, complete with the word “Winner” on it. Now they would have something to show witnesses!
WHEN?
“Hey, Jason!” called Joe. Jason had stopped picking through the pile of bats and balls. He was sitting by himself on the other side of the bleachers. He still looked angry. When Joe called his name, he came running over.
“Are you guys going to find my mitt?” asked Jason excitedly.
“We’re trying,” said Joe. “But we need your help. Do you remember when you last had it?”
“Well,” said Jason, “I don’t know exactly. I got here around eight thirty, and I guess I put my bag down right away. But I knew everyone would want to touch the lucky mitt, so I kept that with me. Then, when it was time to practice, I threw it in with the rest of my stuff—right before you guys arrived. When was that?”
Frank looked at his watch. “Eight fifty-nine exactly,” he said. Then he wrote, 8:59—Jason threw the mitt onto the pile.
“Okay,” said Joe. “And when did you find out the mitt was missing?”
“Right after Coach Quinn called a break.”
Mitt discovered missing at about 10:00, Frank wrote in the book.
“Did anything strange happen in between those times?” asked Frank.
“No,” said Jason. “We were practicing, and then the Jupiters showed up. I saw Conor standing around our stuff, and after that my mitt was gone! I’m sure he stole it.”
Jupiters arrived at 9:30, wrote Frank.
“I think Conor stole my mitt because he knows I’m better than he is!” said Jason, getting angry again. “Are you guys going to catch him?”
“
We don’t know he stole it,” said Frank. “But we’re going to catch whoever did!”
Frank didn’t want to assume that Conor had taken Jason’s mitt. But it wasn’t looking good for the Jupiters’ first baseman.
WHERE?
“We need to look at the crime scene again,” said Joe. “Now that everybody’s back to practicing, maybe we can find some clues.” The game was still on, so the Jupiters and the Bandits were all getting ready, except for Jason.
Frank and Joe walked back over to the place where Jason had last seen his mitt. But so many people had touched things, it was impossible to tell if anything was out of order.
There were a million footprints everywhere. But no suspicious trails or anything. Frank and Joe walked around the pile, each in a different direction, to make sure they didn’t miss anything.
“Did you find anything?” asked Joe when they had walked all the way around to the other side.
“Just this,” said Frank, holding out a large stick. “It was mixed up with all the gear.”
“It is random,” said Joe. “But do you think it has anything to do with Jason’s mitt?”
“I don’t know,” said Frank. “But I’m writing it down anyway, just in case.”
Found at scene: gear, footprints, one large stick, wrote Frank in his notebook.
“We’re not getting anywhere!” said Joe.
He was right. They had nothing.
WHY?
“We know that the person who took Jason’s mitt did it on purpose,” said Frank, “because they couldn’t have mistaken the lucky mitt for theirs.”
“Right,” said Joe. “Maybe the Jupiters would do anything to win. . . .”
“Is there any reason anyone else would have taken it?” asked Frank.
“Everyone on the team loves Jason,” said Joe. “And we all want to win this game. I can’t think of any reason someone else would have stolen the mitt. Can you?”
Frank shook his head. Nothing else made sense.
“Wait!” said Frank. “What if someone wanted to sell it? I bet they could get a lot of money for a mitt that used to belong to Willy ‘Winner’ Prime.”
“That’s true. So it’s either Conor Hound . . . or anyone! We’re not getting any closer.”
WHO?
That was the big question. The more evidence they found, the more it seemed that Conor—or one of the other Jupiters—was guilty. Conor had the opportunity, and a reason for doing it. But they couldn’t be sure.
They needed a witness, or solid proof. That was what their dad had taught them.
“You need proof, not just a good suspicion,” he’d said. Joe and Frank just hoped they could find some proof before the game began at nine thirty. Time was running out.
HOW?
Good question! But they wouldn’t know the answer to this one until they found out who had taken the mitt.
Suddenly a voice broke in on them.
“Hey, Frank! Hey, Joe! Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
Before they could look to see who it was, someone tackled Frank from behind.
WHOOMPH!
Frank was knocked to the ground in a heap!
6
A Surprise Witness!
Oh no! I’m sorry, boys.” Mr. Mack had walked over as quickly as he could. Lucy had Frank pinned to the ground. She licked his face all over. Frank tried to tell Lucy to get off, but the dog was tickling him so much he couldn’t get a word out. Joe was laughing so hard he had to sit down.
“Lucy! Down, girl. Down!”
Finally Mr. Mack was able to pull his dog off Frank.
“Gosh, Frank, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Mack. “Every time we see you, we knock you down! I hope you’re not hurt.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Mack. I’m fine,” said Frank.
“That was the funniest thing I’ve seen all day,” said Joe. He laughed as Frank finally got up off the ground and brushed the dirt off his uniform.
To show there were no hard feelings, Frank called Lucy over and patted her on the head.
“Watch out, Frank—it’s that stick you’ve got. Lucy thinks that means you’re going to play fetch. That’s why she tackled you. I was wondering where she’d dropped that stick—we were playing with it earlier.”
Lucy leaped up on Frank again. She was so big, her paws were on Frank’s shoulders.
“Here you go, girl!” Frank gave Lucy the stick. She raced off into the woods behind the baseball diamond, back near where they had first seen her and Mr. Mack earlier that morning.
“Where’s she going?” Joe asked Mr. Mack.
“Oh, Lucy buries her sticks off in the woods. Then she goes back and digs them up. Then she buries them again. It’s a game she likes to play. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“So, what are you guys doing out here still?” asked Joe. He’d picked up the notebook Frank had dropped when Lucy tackled him. Over his shoulder, Frank could see his brother writing the words Possible suspect: Mr. Mack.
“I watch all the Bayport Bandits’ games! I’m a huge baseball fan,” said Mr. Mack. “I can’t get too close to the field, though, because Lucy would chase the balls out on the field!”
“Are you a big fan of Winner Prime?” asked Joe. Frank could see him writing the word “motive” in the notebook. Maybe Mr. Mack was such a big baseball fan that he wanted the mitt for himself!
“Who, Jason’s father? I’d heard he played baseball, but I don’t follow the major leagues, just the local teams. I used to be a Little League coach myself, about forty years ago.”
Joe crossed out the word “motive.” It didn’t seem like Mr. Mack was their suspect. He was just a fan. Besides, if he had the mitt, the boys would see it. He didn’t even have a bag with him. With his cane, he couldn’t have run away and hidden the mitt.
All around them, the families of the players on both teams were beginning to arrive. Some sat on the bleachers, and others brought blankets and had picnics out by the field. Joe and Frank waved to their parents, who had taken up their usual spot on a blanket near the Bandits’ bench so they could watch both Joe and Frank at the same time.
Pretty soon the game was going to start, and they were no closer to finding Jason’s mitt. The boys wanted to go ask their dad what he thought, but this was their case. They preferred to figure it out on their own. They’d done so well with the missing money at the video game contest, after all.
Meanwhile, Mr. Mack kept talking. He loved baseball so much, it seemed like he could go on all day. “Yup, Lucy and I are here every game. We usually watch from back behind the bleachers. I tie her up to one of the posts.”
Mr. Mack pointed back behind where Jason had been sitting. From there, he would have had a great view of the Bandits’ gear.
“Hey,” said Frank. “Were you around earlier?”
“We’ve been here since right after we ran into you.”
“Did you see anyone over by our stuff ?”
Mr. Mack shook his head. “Just the team. Lucy ran onto the field and then kept going—I had to chase after her.”
That would explain the stick they’d found, thought Frank. So now they had no clues at all.
“You didn’t see anyone else?” asked Joe.
“Nope. Oh, wait! I did—that big kid, over there. He was looking through the stuff a little while ago.”
Mr. Mack pointed across the field—directly at Conor Hound!
“Well, the game is going to start soon,” said Mr. Mack. “I should go find Lucy and get ready to watch. Good luck, boys!” He patted Joe and Frank on the shoulder and headed off toward the woods.
The brothers looked at each other. All the evidence pointed in the same direction—Conor Hound! They needed to go to the source. And that meant talking to Conor.
They started to head across the field. But then a whistle blew.
“Line up!” shouted Coach Quinn.
The game was about to begin!
7
Strike Three, You’re Out!
> Oh no! The game was beginning, and they still hadn’t figured out who had taken Jason’s mitt—they hadn’t even talked to their best suspect. They would just have to find a way to get to Conor during the game.
Frank and Joe rushed to get ready. They grabbed their mitts and headed over to the Bandits’ dugout. All the players on both teams were doing the same—all except Jason, who refused to play.
“Not without my lucky mitt!” he said. “This game is unfair! They’re winning by cheating.” But Coach Quinn wouldn’t listen to him.
“No one is cheating,” she said. “Your mitt was lost. It’s terrible, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. A good sportsman would play no matter what.”
But Jason was too mad to listen to her. Instead, he sat on the bench with his hands folded across his chest, looking angry.
Coach Quinn tried to convince him to play. She asked Jason if his father would act that way in a game. She told him that the team was depending on him. But there was no getting through to Jason. Finally the coach shrugged her shoulders. She hoped he would decide to play, but the game would go on—with or without him.
The whole team tried to get Jason to play, but it was no use. Jason refused. And without their best player, the Bandits didn’t stand a chance. Frank and Joe had seven innings—like most Little League teams, the Bandits’ games lasted seven innings rather than nine like the pros—to find the missing mitt . . . or else!
Once the players were ready, the two coaches met in the center of the field. They shook hands and flipped a coin to see which team would be up at bat first.
“Call it,” said Coach Quinn.
“Tails!” said Coach Riley.
It was tails. The Jupiters would bat first. The Bandits took their places around the field. Frank stayed by home plate. He put on the chest guard that protected him against any balls that got past the batter. It was a big piece of plastic, and it was heavy and clunky. But Frank was happy to wear it. Without that and his face mask, he’d have no protection from Speedy’s wicked fastballs!
The Missing Mitt Page 2
