The Haunted Fort

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “It sure didn’t help our treasure search,” Joe murmured.

  Once back in their room, and after a hot shower, the boys felt less despondent. Frank suggested that he and Joe offer to act as guides at Senandaga. “It’ll give us a chance to look around inside the fort, ’ he added.

  They consulted with Uncle Jim, who was shocked to learn of the ferry mishap. He readily agreed to the Hardys’ proposal and was sure Mr. Davenport would concur.

  The exhausted sleuths then went to bed. “At least,” thought Chet in satisfaction as he dozed off, “my painting is ready.”

  When Joe woke the next morning he hopped to the window. “The sun’s out!” he exclaimed. “Wake up, fellows!”

  After breakfast the Hardys wished Chet luck as he hurried off with his painting. The entire school grounds were devoted to the display. Some students hung their watercolors and oils on a long wooden backing sheltered by a red-striped awning. Other paintings stood on easels scattered about the lawn. The sculpture entries were displayed on several long benches near the judges’ table.

  Meanwhile, the Hardys were ready to tackle their job at the fort. They had decided to go in the bateau. Heading for the lake, they met Mr. Davenport, dressed impeccably in a white summer suit. He was in good spirits.

  “Happy Senandaga Day, boys!” he drawled. “Great idea you two being guides.” Frowning slightly, he cautioned them to admit the tourists only in groups and to keep them at the ground level of the fort ruins.

  “Safer that way,” he said. “Also, less chance for someone to sneak off alone and look for the treasure.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.

  Soon the brothers were paddling downlake in the bateau. They passed several canoes and motor-boats heading in the direction of Millwood. “Looks as if the ferry accident may not affect attendance too much,” Joe said.

  Rounding the promontory, the Hardys looked up at the flagpole over the sprawling, gray fortress. They could not believe their eyes. A banner fluttered from the staff, but this one bore three crosses, two red and one white on a field of blue.

  “It’s the British Union Jack!” Frank exclaimed.

  Quickly the boys poled into a cove at the foot of the fort and beached their craft. They scrambled up a steep path and made their way around to the moss-covered entrance passageway in the north wall.

  The brothers hurried through it and found themselves on the old parade grounds. Around the sides stood the ruins of two barracks and the officers’ quarters. In the center was a deep hole which, according to their map, had once been a well. As a precaution, they placed some old planks over it.

  The Hardys once more stared up at the British flag.

  “Well,” said Frank, “if there’s a ghost prowling around Senandaga, now’s the time to track him down. Visitors will be arriving soon.”

  They walked about the massive, crumbling interior. After circling the parapets, the boys reached the south demilune by a wooden draw-bridge, which Mr. Davenport had had reconstructed. After checking the west demilune, they headed back through the entrance tunnel.

  “No flag-raising ghosts so far,” Joe quipped as they walked inland to unlock the promontory gate.

  “The ramparts seem safe enough,” Frank observed, “but the west demilune, dungeons, and stores are in bad shape. They’ll have to be off limits.”

  Soon a trickle of tourists began. Frank and Joe took turns meeting them at the gate and escorting them, careful to keep the visitors in groups. After a while the sightseers swelled in number. Several times the Hardys were asked about the ghost rumors, and also about the British flag. The brothers would grin, merely saying these were mysteries no one had yet solved.

  Frank and Joe were kept so busy they had little opportunity to look for any tomahawk marking. At noon they hastily ate sandwiches they had brought, then resumed their job. Later, Jim Kenyon stopped in to see how they were faring.

  “Business here is fine,” Frank reported. “How is the exhibit doing—and Chet?”

  “We have a good crowd. And my nephew’s as happy as a lark. His painting has attracted a lot of attention.” Uncle Jim left, reminding the Hardys that the judging would be at seven o’clock.

  “We’ll be there,” Joe said.

  During the afternoon the boys overheard some of the visitors commenting on the Millwood exhibit. One elderly lady said to her companion, “That still life by that Morton boy is striking!” The Hardys exchanged grins.

  They found most people to be impressed by the brooding majesty of the Senandaga ruins and several spoke in favor of the fort’s being restored.

  Minutes before closing time, Frank led the last tour around the fort. Suddenly, from the ramp, he noticed a boy of about six make a beeline for the fort well. Frank saw with horror that the boards no longer covered it, but had been shifted to one side!

  “That’s dangerous—stop!” he shouted, running down the ramp.

  But the child ignored the warning and leaned far over the yawning hole. A cry broke from the boy’s lips as he lost his balance. Frank just managed to yank him to safety. He patted the youngster’s head reassuringly as the frightened mother dashed up.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said. “We had these boards over the hole. They were moved.”

  The woman thanked Frank and quickly led her son away.

  When the last visitor had left, the Hardys went over to the well. Each wondered the same thing: Had somebody moved the boards on purpose, hoping to cause an accident? If so, was it the work of the same enemy?

  “I sure wish we could wait for sundown to see if anybody lowers that flag,” said Joe.

  “So do I. But we promised to be back. Chet will be disappointed if we don’t show up.”

  It was now a little before six o’clock. They hurried down and set off in the bateau. Poling off, they looked back at Fort Senandaga. The Union Jack was still waving from the mast.

  “I wonder,” Frank said, “if these flags popping up have some connection with Senandaga Day—and that mysterious battle.”

  “Could be.”

  As soon as they had landed at the Millwood beach, the Hardys sought out Chet among the throng of visitors and art students.

  They spotted him under a tree, and were astonished to see Chet, looking dejected, lifting his canvas from the easel.

  “Why so glum, pal?” Frank greeted him. “We heard you were a big hit!”

  Chet’s face grew longer. “It was swell until just this minute,” he mumbled. “I went to get some lemonade. While I was gone—”

  Unable to finish, Chet swallowed and held up his painting. Frank and Joe gasped. What had been a still life of purple grapes in a yellow basket was smeared with blobs of dripping, green paint!

  CHAPTER XIV

  Lucky Watermelon

  “MY painting’s ruined!” Chet looked sadly at the ugly blotches on the canvas.

  “That’s a dirty trick!” Joe said, as Frank looked around angrily for possible suspects.

  “What about Ronnie Rush?” Joe asked. “I wouldn’t put it past him, especially if he was jealous of the hit your painting made.”

  At the moment Ronnie was not in sight. Frank had an idea. “Chet! You’ve still got a little time before the judges arrive. Maybe you can fix up the picture.”

  Chet seemed doubtful, but Joe quickly joined in to raise his hopes. “Look—only the grapes in the center are ruined—the rest is okay. You could make those green paint blobs into something else!”

  “Maybe you’re right!” Chet acknowledged, brightening. “I’ll try it!” Carrying his canvas, he trotted excitedly toward the painting studio.

  “What a blow for Chet!” Frank commented.

  Joe agreed. “He was really crushed.”

  The Hardys met Uncle Jim. His face fell when they told him of the prank, but he was reassured on hearing of Chet’s last-minute attempt. “I’ll run over and try to keep up his inspiration!”

  The Hardys then saw Mr. Davenport at the shelte
red exhibit area, and went over. The elderly patron was walking from one canvas to the next. He spoke volubly, proudly commending his students.

  “Well constructed, Bob, good attack!” he told one smiling boy, and moved on to a large, historical battle scene done by another youth.

  “Excellent subject, Cliff! You’ve got your figures well deployed!” Twirling his cane happily, he proceeded to another entry. Next to it, looking nervous, stood a blond-haired girl. Her entry was an imaginative view of the Millwood mansion.

  “Good thickness of paint there, Ellen.” Mr. Davenport beamed. “Invulnerably designed!”

  Joe chuckled. “He sounds as if he’s talking about the construction of a fort!”

  Frank laughed, but quickly became grim. He pointed to a knoll some distance away.

  Ronnie Rush stood on the slope near two easels. He had a garish painting displayed on each. The Hardys hurried up to him.

  “Say, what happened to your fat friend?” he asked, smirking. “He get cold feet and withdraw from the exhibit?”

  “Not yet,” Frank said coldly. “Do you know who messed up Chet’s painting?”

  The smug look on Ronnie’s face turned to one of anxiety but only for a moment. He sniggered. “Fatso probably messed it up himself.” He pointed to his canvases. “The judges will know good stuff when they see it. Say,” he added abruptly, “why are you two cruising around in that weird boat, anyhow?”

  “Part of our research,” Joe replied tersely. By now it was almost seven o’clock, and the Hardys wondered how Chet was making out. They started for the studio and met Chet coming out, his canvas grasped carefully in both hands.

  “Any luck?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “I hope so.” Chet held out his revised painting.

  The yellow basket now contained a large, green, elliptical fruit. Below was the title—“Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket.”

  Frank and Joe praised their friend’s ingenuity. “It looks good enough to eat, Chet!” Frank grinned.

  For the next hour four men judges viewed the paintings and sculptures, frequently jotting down notes.

  The Hardys diverted Chet somewhat by telling of their experiences at the fort that day. The plump boy grew tense, however, as the judges paused at his easel. Inscrutably they eyed the still life, scribbled on their pads, and passed on to the next painting. Chet shrugged. “Guess I don’t have a chance.”

  An air of anticipation hushed the crowd as the judges returned to their table and conferred privately. Finally they handed a sheet of paper to Jim Kenyon, who announced:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to award the prizes.”

  The crowd surged close, and waited silently. First, the sculpture awards were read by René Follette. Mr. Davenport stood next to the prize table and handed out a ribbon and a gift to the three winners.

  Uncle Jim stepped forward to give the painting awards.

  “Boy, even I’ve got butterflies—they’re coming out of my ears!” Joe whispered.

  “First prize for the best watercolor goes to ‘Night Crossing’ by Carol Allen.”

  Applause accompanied each announcement as the lucky students accepted a ribbon and a gift. A smile crossed the instructor’s face.

  “And finally, first prize for the most original work, in all categories, goes to ‘Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket’ by Chester Morton!”

  Chet was speechless with delighted surprise.

  “Go ahead, pal!” the elated Hardys shouted above the applause, slapping their friend on the back.

  Proudly Chet went forward to receive hand-shakes from both his uncle and Mr. Davenport. Several students congratulated him warmly as he squeezed his way back to Frank and Joe.

  “Look what I got—a complete oil-paint set!” He beamed, cradling a large wooden box in his arms. “Thanks a lot, fellows, for your encouragement.”

  Joe could not resist a pun. “We knew it’d just be a matter of time before something tickled your palette!”

  The three Bayporters laughed.

  “O-oh, look who’s coming,” Frank said as Ronnie Rush pushed through the crowd. His name had not been among the prize winners and his face showed it.

  He glared resentfully at Chet. “Just plain dumb luck, fatso!” Ronnie kicked at a rock and marched angrily up the hill.

  “What a poor loser!” Joe said.

  “Maybe I should have thanked him,” Chet said, “if he did try to make trouble for me.”

  “Speaking of trouble,” Joe said tersely, “look at what’s coming.” He pointed to the lake where a cabin cruiser was anchored a little way beyond the promontory. Standing on deck was Chauncey Gilman! Then the pilot rowed him to the beach and helped Gilman step ashore.

  The critic, as elegantly dressed as before, moved disdainfully through the throng. The Hardys and Chet watched as Uncle Jim greeted the newcomer guardedly. Mr. Davenport followed, clearly exerting all his will power to keep calm. “I trust, sir,” he said in a formal manner, “you will be fair in your review.”

  “Fair?” Gilman repeated loftily. “Why, the only way I could be fair to your juveniles’ exhibit would be to shut my eyes!”

  With a shrill laugh, he moved away and began viewing the student paintings. Mr. Davenport, scowling, trailed behind, accompanied by Jim and the three boys. Gilman paused at the painting which had taken the first prize.

  “My, my. If this is one of the best, what must the worst be!”

  With apprehension, the boys watched Gilman proceed, audibly abusing the paintings and sculptures one after another.

  “Tsk! Tsk! Who victimized this canvas?” He pointed at a landscape done in watercolor. The girl who had painted it seemed on the verge of tears.

  When he came to Chet’s still life, the reviewer burst into high-pitched laughter.

  “Oh, priceless, priceless! The blue ribbon must be from a fruit market!”

  Although annoyed, Chet was not greatly upset by Gilman’s remark, and Uncle Jim said, “The judges thought the exhibition today was one of the finest they had ever seen. The worst thing,” he added, “is that Gilman’s derogatory comments about Millwood will be printed.”

  Mr. Davenport had been unusually quiet. The boys noticed a peculiar expression on his face as Chauncey Gilman closed his notebook and said, “Thank you all for a most entertaining evening. Better luck next year!”

  As Gilman strutted toward his rowboat, Mr. Davenport whispered to Jim Kenyon. The instructor, looking puzzled, called for everyone’s attention. “Mr. Davenport wants us all to go right out to the promontory,” Uncle Jim announced. “It’s a surprise.”

  The group, sensing something unusual afoot, soon gathered at the end of the dusky headland. Gilman’s rowboat could be seen approaching the lighted cruiser.

  The Hardys and Chet were surprised to see Mr. Ashbach crouched beneath them on the bank, and, at some distance to the right, Mr. Davenport, also bending low. Each man held the end of a wire!

  Gilman’s droning laugh could be heard over the splash of the oars. Then, at a signal from the millionaire, Mr. Ashbach began pulling his wire.

  The next moment a luminous serpent’s head with gleaming white teeth broke the surface just ahead of the rowboat! Writhing, it headed for the craft.

  Gilman shot up out of his seat, giving a shriek of terror.

  “A m-monster! It’s—it’s a monster! Rogers! Help! Rogers!” he blubbered. “Save me!”

  CHAPTER XV

  An Eerie Vigil

  THE hideous serpent bumped violently into the rowboat. With howls of horror, Chauncey Gilman and his pilot were pitched overboard. They floundered wildly in the lake, and the soggy notebook sank out of sight.

  As the glistening monster hove from the water toward them, Gilman and the boatman splashed furiously for the cabin cruiser.

  The group gathered on the promontory rocked with laughter. Doubled up with mirth, the Hardys, Chet, and Uncle Jim saw a grinning Mr. Davenport finally relax his wire, and the carpenter did
the same.

  “So the ‘monster’ was constructed just for Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said as the millionaire climbed up to join them.

  “Yes, siree. And I’ll see that he reads a detailed account—in print,” declared Mr. Davenport.

  Happily, the group dispersed for the night. All the next day the Millwood grounds echoed with laughter at the successful serpent scare.

  Monday morning, as Frank hung up the phone in the mansion hallway, Joe asked, “Any word on Adrian Copier?”

  “Not a thing,” Frank reported. “The chief says Copier’s done a complete vanishing job. The police did find an unrusted hacksaw underwater near where the ferry cables were cut. They’re following that clue.”

  Frank also had learned that a statewide check was being made on art dealers for the stolen fort paintings.

  Chet, having just finished breakfast, joined the brothers. “Well,” he said as they went outside, “what’s for today?”

  “A camp-out tonight,” Joe said promptly.

  “Great!” Chet responded. “Where?”

  “Senandaga.”

  “S-Senandaga?” Chet gulped. “Of all places to pick!”

  Frank grinned. “Chet, you may have a chance to paint some ghosts.” He added seriously, “We’ve got to unearth that tomahawk clue before somebody else does.”

  “You’re right.”

  The Bayporters went into Cedartown to buy food and other necessary supplies. Finding no hardware store, they went to the sport shop. Myles Warren was not there, but a crew-cut youth waited on them. With difficulty, he finally located three folding-type spades.

  “Sorry for the delay,” he apologized. “Don’t know the stock as well as Mr. Warren.”

  “Is he on vacation?” Frank asked.

  “No, but several days a week he goes out to do some painting. Can I get you anything else?”

  The boys picked out three high-beam flashlights, sleeping bags, and a scout knife. “Guess that’s all,” Joe said.

  “Where are you fellows going to camp?” asked the clerk.

  “Probably down at the south end of the lake,” Frank replied noncommittally.