“Frank!” Chet shouted. “Joe!”
Quickly he and the officer removed the gags from the boys’ mouths and unfastened their bindings.
“Oh-h!” Joe said, rising and stretching his cramped legs. “We thought you’d never find us.”
Frank rubbed his arms briskly to restore the circulation. “Gosh, are we glad to see you!”
“What happened?” General Smith asked, as soon as he was assured that the Hardys had not been injured.
“While Joe and I were waiting for Chet to get a picture of the deer,” Frank said, “three men jumped us. We were gagged and blindfolded. They must have followed us from Centerville.”
“Who were they?” Chet asked.
“Couldn’t tell,” Joe replied. “They wore masks. But listen to this. One of them was called Junior!”
“Probably very young,” General Smith cried out. “Could be one of the men who tried to kidnap me from your house!”
“I’m sure this was the same person,” Frank said.
“And I didn’t see a thing happen!” Chet moaned.
“Go on with your story,” urged the officer. “This must be reported—kidnapping is a Federal offense.”
“They marched us through the woods,” Joe explained. “Since our hands were tied, we couldn’t drop anything to leave a trail for you to find.”
“So you did the next best thing,” remarked the general. “You made marks with your feet.”
Joe smiled. “That was Frank’s idea. Every once in a while he’d drag one of his feet as if he were stumbling.”
“Good headwork!” the general said admiringly. “It’s lucky Chet decided to look on the other side of the brook. That’s where he found the shoe.”
Joe explained that the lace had become loose as he stumbled along, and the shoe had fallen off.
“A break for you!” General Smith exclaimed. “Your shoe led us to this place. Here, put it on.”
As Joe tied the lace, Chet asked, “What kind of place is this? Feels like a tomb.”
“It’s an old smokehouse,” Frank replied. “Guess it hasn’t been used for years.” He shuddered. “Let’s get out in the sun so we can dry out.”
The clear, warm air of the early morning sent a glow through Frank and Joe as they made their way back to the car and rode to the general’s home. There the front door was opened by a middle-aged Negro, beaming broadly. His courteous welcome reminded the boys of the gentle traditions of the Old South.
“Good morning, General.”
“Right on the job, Claude. I knew I could depend on you.”
After introducing his three guests, the general ordered breakfast. This gave the boys time for a couple of phone calls.
Frank got in touch with the local police chief, told him about the kidnapping, and asked if there was any criminal known locally as Junior. The chief searched his files and reported that to his knowledge there was not. He added that he would send out a bulletin on the kidnappers.
Next, Frank called Bayport. A few seconds later Aunt Gertrude answered. When Frank asked for his father, his aunt said he had not returned yet from Washington. Then she added apprehensively:
“Something serious must be happening, Frank, or you wouldn’t be calling home.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “We’ve run into a character named Junior. I thought Dad could check his files for a criminal by that name.”
“Junior!” The detective’s sister grasped the import at once. “One of the men who tried to break into our house! He’s chasing you down South?”
“He was, Auntie. Now we’re chasing him.”
“Well, look out for him! He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I’ll tell your father about Junior. You’re running up a big telephone bill. Good-by.”
Grinning, Frank hung up when he heard a click on the other end of the line.
Presently Claude announced, “Breakfast is served!”
With those welcome words, the boys and the general sat down to an old-fashioned Southern repast. Chet’s face was aglow as Claude served chilled cantaloupe, followed by crisp-fringed pancakes and broiled ham. Then he brought in a platter of fried eggs, a dish of raspberry jam, and piping hot muffins.
Letting his belt out a notch, Chet asked, “General, does everybody eat like this in the South?”
“They used to,” the officer replied, smiling. “Most people are in too much of a hurry today to enjoy the art of good cooking.”
“Not me!” Chet decorated another muffin with a daub of jam. “The South’s a wonderful place, General.”
“Now let’s go back to the museum,” Joe said when they finished eating.
“We’ve already paid our admission without a chance to look around,” Chet put in. “We ought to get in free today!”
General Smith, anxious to get to the police station to talk to the chief about the boys’ kidnapping, promised to join them after their visit to the museum.
A short time later the Hardys and Chet arrived at the old farmhouse. When they walked through the front door, a new guard greeted them. In the friendly old Negro’s place sat a stout man, whose red face was particularly striking because of a scar that ran from the side of his mouth like an extra-wide smile.
He apparently was wearing the same gray suit, because the front gaped open where the buttons were struggling to hold the jacket together.
“What do you kids want?” the man asked gruffly.
“We’ve come to look at the exhibits,” Frank replied.
“The museum’s closed.”
“No, it’s not!” Joe shot back. “Where’d that old man go?”
“The professor will tell you!” growled the man. “Professor!”
Randolph suddenly appeared from behind a glass display case. “Back again, eh?”
“We’re going to finish the tour you interrupted yesterday,” Frank stated firmly.
“I repeat,” the professor intoned, his voice rising in a crescendo, “this place now belongs to me!”
“There’s no deed recorded in your name at the courthouse!” Frank said evenly.
The man winced, then he said with a curl to his lips, “They haven’t had time to file one yet. I bought the place only yesterday.” Suddenly he became more friendly. “Well, Smi—” He caught himself as he looked at the guard, “I guess we can let ’em look around. But this is the last time, boys.
“Keep an eye on things,” he told his man, “till I get the deed recorded.” With that, he stalked out the front door.
Frank, Joe, and Chet browsed around the museum. A case full of old sabers intrigued Joe, who examined the ornate handles and noted the keen edges of the blades.
“Hey, look! An old mess kit,” Chet exclaimed.
“Always thinking about food,” Frank quipped, stepping over to see the odd collection of utensils. “Hey, what are you chewing on now?”
“Gum. Want a piece?”
“No thanks.”
Joe picked up a battered pewter pan. “This looks as if it had been creased by a bullet.”
“Here’s an old canteen,” Frank observed.
He held the metal water bottle in his hand, turning it over and over. Its cloth covering had long since rotted off, but the two rings remained where a strap once had held it over a trooper’s shoulder.
Frank unscrewed the top and peered inside. “There’s something in the bottom of this,” he whispered to Joe.
His brother put an eye to the small opening. “You’re right. Looks like a bit of paper.” Joe turned the canteen over and shook it vigorously, but failed to dislodge the paper.
“Wait a sec. I’ve got an idea,” Frank said. “Chet, lend me your chewing gum.”
“But it’s unsanitary. I’ll give—”
“Hand it over!” Chet obeyed as Frank pulled a pencil from his pocket. He pressed the sticky gum to the end of the yellow stick, inserted it in the canteen, and made contact with the paper. Out it came!
“You’re a genius, Frank,” Chet
said admiringly.
Just then the museum guard leaned far back in his creaking chair. Frank caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“He’s trying to watch us,” the boy warned. “Let’s go over to the other side of the room.”
Frank put the old canteen down where he had found it and walked to the front of the fireplace, Joe and Chet following. Then, very carefully, Frank opened the paper.
As the boys waited intently, Frank’s eyes almost popped. “Listen to this!” In guarded tones he read aloud the short message:
“ ‘Dying. Can’t make it back. Got General Smith’s bandoleer. May be war secret. Hid it in Pleasanton’s Bridge when chase hot.
Bing’ ”
Joe gave a low whistle. “This must have been written by Charles Bingham, the spy suspected of stealing the bandoleer!”
Frank quickly folded the note.
“Let’s go find that bridge!”
CHAPTER IX
A Trap
THE boys decided to take the Civil War message to General Smith. Frank tucked it into his wallet, and made for the door. As he, Joe, and Chet left, the guard called after them in a gravelly voice:
“Remind yourselves not to come back!”
The boys paid no attention. After waiting a moment for Chet to snap a picture of the historical building in which the important clue had been found, Frank drove toward Centerville. Stopping in front of a service station, he asked for gas and requested directions to Pleasanton’s Bridge.
“Pleasanton’s Bridge? Never heard of it,” replied the attendant.
“It’s in the vicinity of Rocky Run,” Frank said, “or at least it ought to be.”
“I’ve lived here a long time,” declared the man as he wiped the windshield, “but I sure never heard of a Pleasanton’s Bridge.”
“More bad luck,” Joe remarked as they drove off. “Now that we’ve found a good clue, we can’t locate the bridge.”
The boys’ next call was at Centerville’s one-room library. Frank asked the pleasant, gray-haired librarian for a book on local Civil War history.
“Thanks very much,” Frank said, taking several books which the woman suggested. “Perhaps you can help us find what we’re looking for.”
When he told of their quest for Pleasanton’s Bridge, the librarian took off her spectacles and frowned in deep thought.
“A Captain Pleasanton was in the Battle of Rocky Run,” she stated. “But I’ve never heard of a bridge by that name.”
Sitting down with the boys, she helped them scan the books, in a vain search for the mysterious bridge. When their perusal proved to be of no avail, Frank thanked the woman for her help.
Chet smiled wryly as the boys left the library. “Well, fellows, I guess the mystery of the lost gold ends right here,” he sighed. “There’s not much we can do now.”
Frank set his jaw and snapped his fingers. “Wait! I have it!”
“What?” Chet asked as he and Joe followed Frank at a brisk jog across the square.
Frank headed for the courthouse. Joe kept pace, but their stout friend lagged behind, his eye on a luncheonette and candy store.
The Hardys went straight to the old man who registered deeds. He recognized Frank at once.
“Lookin’ up more deeds?” he asked.
“No,” Frank said with a smile. “I’m looking for a bridge. Pleasanton’s Bridge.”
Frank’s pulse quickened at the registrar’s sudden look of understanding. “Pleasanton’s Bridge! Well, son, I hadn’t heard mention of that in many a year, until just a little while ago.”
“What do you mean?” Frank asked apprehensively.
“You’re the second fellow to ask me that question in less than an hour,” the man said. “Y’all playing a game?”
Frank assured him they were not, and asked what the other inquirer looked like.
“He was a tall, dark man. Stranger to me. Didn’t give his name.”
“Did he have a mustache?” Joe asked, suspecting Professor Randolph at once.
“No. Clean-shaven.”
The Hardys were puzzled. Was the stranger Dr. Bush?
“Did you tell the man where the bridge is?” Frank asked, trying hard to conceal his excitement.
The registrar took a deep puff on his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
“Take it easy, son. Nothing to get wrought up about. The bridge isn’t there any more.”
“It’s gone?” Joe asked.
The old man ran his thumbs up and down his suspenders and leaned back in his chair. Then, with measured words, he told them that Pleasanton’s was the military name given a stone and timber bridge over Rocky Run. It was called this because a Captain Pleasanton had been assigned to defend it. A furious battle had raged on either side of the span, and when Pleasanton had found his position untenable, he had destroyed the bridge.
“Then there’s nothing left of it?” Joe asked.
“Wouldn’t say that. The old abutments are still standing,” the man replied, drawing the flame of a match into the bowl of his corncob pipe. “I’ll tell y‘all how to find it. Go south on the county road two miles and turn right till you come to the new bridge over Rocky Run. Pleasanton’s Bridge is ’bout half a mile downstream.”
The boys thanked the old man and hurried out. As they got into their car, Chet arrived with a large bag of sandwiches and three cartons of milk.
“Guess this’ll do for lunch,” he said with a grin.
“More’n that,” Frank said. “Hop in. We’re bound for Pleasanton’s Bridge.”
“You found out where it is?” Chet asked increduously. Then he pointed to a poster on a telegraph pole at the curb. “ ‘Civil War Rifle Shoot on the twenty-third,’ ” the boy read. “That’s tomorrow, fellows. I’d like to see it!”
“Sounds like fun,” Joe agreed.
Frank drove down the highway and turned off where the registrar had told him. He pulled up at the new bridge.
“Say, this is the place where the guy in the black sedan stopped to look at us,” Chet remarked. “Hope he isn’t around here now.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Frank promised.
The boys realized it would be necessary to walk from this spot to the site of Pleasanton’s Bridge, since Rocky Run left the road here and meandered through the fields and woods.
Frank drove the car behind a clump of trees. After eating their picnic lunch, the three boys started downstream to find Pleasanton’s Bridge. They followed the faint trace of a long-forgotten trail beside the water.
“This stream must be on the Beauregard Smith plantation,” Joe remarked as they went along.
Warily the three pushed on, searching for a sign of the old bridge. Suddenly at the base of a little rise they came upon a pile of rotted logs.
“An old cabin,” Chet said. “Maybe Pleasanton’s Bridge was a toll bridge, and the bridge tender lived here.”
The boys walked around the perimeter of the ruins. Frank pointed to broken bits of dishes and a crushed rusted kettle buried beneath one of the logs.
“Guess this is all that’s left of the place, and I don’t see any sign of a bridge.”
Suddenly Chet gave a whoop. “Oh boy! A Civil War rifle!”
Some twenty feet ahead lay an antique firing piece, its barrel glinting in the sun. Chet rushed toward it.
But Frank’s sharp warning stayed his friend’s quick motion. “Don’t touch that thing!”
Chet’s hand was barely six inches from the rifle when he pulled it back.
“This may be a trap!” Frank warned. “That weapon’s too shiny to have been here long.”
The older Hardy walked swiftly into the thicket and ripped a twining vine from an old stump. Tying several pieces together, Frank made a long string from the tendrils. Carefully, and without touching the rifle, he tied one end to the stock.
Then Frank motioned Joe and Chet to stand off at some distance behind a tree. When all three boys were concealed, Fra
nk tugged gently on the other end of the vine.
Into the air flew a shower of sparks!
“Good night!” Chet cried. “The rifle’s charged with electricity!”
“This may be a trap!” Frank warned
“I thought there was something phony about it,” Frank said grimly.
He tugged on the vine again. Another arc of sparks flew from the weapon, hissing and crackling.
“I—I think we’d better get out of here fast!” Chet declared, moving back.
Suddenly the sparks stopped. Frank felt a gentle release on the rifle as if it had loosened from something. He pulled the weapon toward him.
“What do you suppose charged it?” Chet wondered, wide-eyed, when the old firing piece finally lay at their feet.
The boys cautiously examined the spot where the weapon had lain. As they probed the grass with sticks, Joe pointed out a long wire.
“This must have been attached to the rifle!” he exclaimed. “Let’s see where it goes!”
Knowing that the wire probably was still charged, the three poked along its course with meticulous care.
Just beyond, the sight that greeted the boys made them shudder. On the other side of the trees was an electric power line. And looped over one of the cables was the wire they were following!
“Bush’s men, or somebody, apparently will stop at nothing!” Frank exclaimed. “That trap was laid with professional skill.”
Standing far back from the wire, he knocked it from the overhead cable with a stick. It hit the ground, rendered harmless to anyone else who might pass by.
“This proves one thing to me,” Frank declared. “Pleasanton’s Bridge must be near here. Come on. Let’s find it!”
Just as Chet and the Hardys started out, a flash of lightning streaked the sky, followed by a deep roll of thunder. In a minute it grew as dark as night. A moment later a torrent of rain whipped the woodland furiously, accompanied by a heavy wind which tore through the treetops. Rocky Run was almost obscured by the downpour.
The boys ducked under some low bushes, hoping the storm would subside. Instead, it grew worse. Lightning traced jagged patterns in the black sky and thunder roared through the hills.
“We’d better go back!” Chet shouted. “It’s not ...”
The Secret of the Lost Tunnel Page 5
