Mrs. Belden smiled indulgently. “That’s a long time from now, dear,” she said. “I trust the fresh air and excitement to reawaken the famous Belden appetite.”
Trixie laughed. “You’re right, as usual, Moms,” she said. “I guess we need this big breakfast, after all. And thanks for fixing it for us,” she added. “It’s really sweet of you, when were all going to be deserting you on the busiest day of the week around Crabapple Farm.”
Mrs. Belden poured heated maple syrup from a pan into a cream pitcher as she replied, “This is a good Saturday for you to take off, Trixie. Next weekend is spring planting time, and after that we’ll really get busy around here.”
“We’ll make it up to you,” Trixie said, giving her mother an excited hug as she thought about the drawing of Crabapple Farm that was hidden in her room, ready to present to her mother the next day, which was Mother’s Day.
The breakfast was delicious, but Mart, Trixie, and Brian were too excited to linger over it. Long before the station wagon came up the drive, all three were waiting, their jackets on, looking out the front window impatiently.
“They’re here!” Trixie called, rushing out the door and climbing into the station wagon, where Honey, Jim, Di, and Dan already waited. Brian and Mart were right behind her, their usual older-brother pose of maturity abandoned.
The Bob-Whites took turns getting out of the car to put up the arrows. At one point, Trixie took a piece of poster board with her and ran ahead to the next point, trying to work off her nervous energy.
By the time the last arrow was up, it was time for everyone to go to their assigned rest stops to wait for the cyclists.
The abandoned house looked totally unmysterious once again as the station wagon pulled into the driveway. No one would ever believe that, until last night, this house hid a ring of counterfeiters, Trixie thought. She shuddered as she remembered how close she’d almost come to tragedy the night before. For a moment, she wondered if she should have taken Brian’s suggestion and traded assignments with Di or Honey so that she wouldn’t have to spend any more time at the house.
Soon, however, the clearing was filled with happy, noisy cyclists, and Trixie had no more time to think about her brush with danger. She checked off each cyclist’s name and helped Jim and Brian serve punch and sweet rolls, which Tom Delanoy had dropped off earlier.
Then it was time to load everything into the station wagon and drive to Mr. Maypenny’s.
“Can’t we follow the bike route over there?” Trixie begged. “I want to see how many cyclists are still riding.”
“There’s enough traffic on the highway as it is, Trixie,” Jim said. “Even with the police escort the cyclists have, I don’t feel that we should add to it. We’ll have to go back along Glen Road the other way and wait for the bikeathon to get to Mr. Maypenny’s.”
Wait, wait, wait, Trixie thought. That’s all 1 ever do. At least today I’m waiting for something pleasant, instead of waiting to he loaded into a van and—and disposed of. She shivered.
The something that Trixie was waiting for turned out to be very pleasant indeed. All but two of the cyclists had made it to Mr. Maypenny’s. The other two had had bike trouble.
“I took them home,” Tom Delanoy told the Bob-Whites. “I know all about cars, but those ten-speed bikes are a mystery to me. I couldn’t fix them.” Trixie thought about how disappointed the two cyclists must be. Still, they’d both made it past Mrs. Vanderpoel’s, which meant they’d earned quite a bit of money for the art department. And nobody had to drop out because of injury, she added to herself. That’s wonderful!
Most of the cyclists clustered excitedly around Mr. Maypenny, who stirred the batch of hunter’s stew, tasting it every now and then. Mr. Maypenny’s gaunt, weather-beaten face fairly glowed from the heat of the steam rising from the kettle and from all the attention he was getting from the young people.
“Isn’t he adorable?” Honey said to Trixie in a low voice.
Trixie nodded. “You know he must have gotten up at dawn to get the fire going and start chopping all the vegetables for the stew. I’d be positively growly by now, but he’s having the time of his life!”
Nick Roberts stood apart from the group. He had a large sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, and he was making quick, bold sketches of various scenes from the picnic, which he gave out to the cyclists as souvenirs.
Ben Riker stood close to Nick, watching the young artist sketch. “I’d give anything to be able to draw like that,” Ben told Nick after he’d watched him at work for a while.
Nick darted a quick glance at Ben to see if he was being taunted.
“I really mean it,” Ben added hastily. “I’ve always enjoyed sketching—oh, nothing good like these things of yours, you understand. I just do little doodles on my notebook covers or on the message pad by the phone. I was always too afraid that I’d be teased if I took it seriously, so I’ve never really worked at it. Watching you draw, I really wish I had.”
“You’re never too old to learn,” Nick said, turning the sketch pad to a fresh page and handing the pad and pencil to Ben. “Try drawing that group of people over there.” He pointed to two boys and a girl who were chattering happily over their bowls of stew.
Ben’s usual composure vanished, and he looked flustered, but he took the pad and pencil and began to draw. Nick looked on critically, giving Ben an occasional bit of advice. When the sketch was finished, Nick studied it for a long time, while Ben looked on anxiously.
“I’d say you have some talent,” Nick said. “You should think about taking an art class next year if you’re still at Sleepyside. Mr. Crider is a good teacher, and, for a change, there should be no shortage of supplies, now that Trixie and her friends have raised all this money.”
The school principal, who had just arrived at the picnic, overheard Nick’s comment. “That’s right,” he agreed. “Actually, that’s only the half of it. This bikeathon—and the need for it—has caused a lot of comment in the community. The school board is on the spot for neglecting the art department. Chances are they’ll allot a good deal more to the art department budget next year.”
Nick, in his excitement at what the principal had just said, pounded Ben Riker on the back. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. “If I work hard enough next year, I can put together a portfolio that will be accepted by any art school in the country. Now that I’m sure of that, I just know I’ll be able to scrape together the tuition somehow.”
Ben looked enviously at Nick, admiring him for having a dedication that he himself had never felt. “I’m sure you will, Nick. I’m sure you will.”
While Nick was getting encouragement from Ben Riker and the principal, Trixie was getting discouragement from Sergeant Molinson, in the form of another stem warning against meddling in police business.
“I told you when you turned in the deutsche mark,” he said, “that the counterfeiters would be desperate criminals. Did you listen to me? No! You went out, in the dead of night, without telling anyone where you were going, and got yourself caught by those very same men.”
“But—” Trixie started to protest.
“But nothing, Trixie,” the sergeant cut her off. “As a policeman for the town of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson, I’m charged with protecting the safety and well-being of the town’s citizens. That includes you, Trixie Belden. Would you tell me, please, how I can do my duty when you insist on taking foolish and unnecessary risks?”
Trixie stared at the ground. She had started to tell the sergeant that she hadn’t intended to get herself into a dangerous situation, that she’d simply gone to the abandoned house without thinking to tell anyone. She realized that that excuse would hardly make Sergeant Molinson feel better.
I thought I’d escaped his lecture when he left the abandoned house last night, Trixie thought. I guess he just went home to rehearse it. Trixie bit her lower lip. What an awful thing to think! Sergeant Molinson is just concerned about me. I should be grateful, instead of angry.
“Anyway,” Sergeant Molinson said, apparently feeling that he’d given Trixie enough of a lecture, especially on such a happy day, “you got out of danger unharmed one more time. The two culprits we arrested last night gave us the name of the engraver they got to work for them. And you’ll be happy to know that I received a call this morning from the president of a bank in upstate New York. His bank had taken in quite a bit of the counterfeit German currency that ring turned out when they were operating up there. The bank pledged a large sum as a reward to the first person who located the counterfeiters’ operation, and some of the other banks in the area added money
of their own to the reward.
“It’s quite a lot of money all together—about five thousand dollars. That money will go to you, since you discovered the hideout. I suppose that you have a worthy charity all picked out. No?” he questioned, seeing Trixie shaking her head.
“I can t give that money to my favorite charity because I didn’t earn it,” Trixie said excitedly. “Nick did! He was already hiding in the van when I got to the abandoned house, so that means that he was the first to find it! Wait till I tell him!”
“You don’t have to,” Nick said over Trixie’s shoulder. “I—I couldn’t help but overhear.” Nick’s eyes were shining. “It looks like my problems are all solved, along with the mystery.”
Nick looked down at the piece of paper he’d tom out of the sketch pad and was now holding in his hands. “I—I actually came over to give you this, Trixie. It was supposed to be a joke, but now— I’m not sure it’s appropriate, but take it anyway.”
Nick held out the piece of paper, and Trixie took it. She began to laugh. The other Bob-Whites gathered around her and looked at it, and then they began to laugh, too.
“How can you say this isn’t appropriate?” Mart asked. “Why, I can’t think of a more appropriate pose in which to draw Trixie Belden.”
The sketch Nick had drawn was one of Trixie, biting her lower lip and looking contrite, and Sergeant Molinson, towering over her and looking stern.
“It’s perfectly perfect!” Honey said. “You haven’t known any of us for very long, Nick, but when you have, you’ll know that that’s a pose that Trixie seems to find herself in fairly often.”
“Too often,” Trixie admitted. “I’m going to hang this picture in my room and stare at it for thirty minutes every day, to remind myself of what happens when I don’t listen to Sergeant Molinson’s advice.”
“I’m glad you can find a use for this sketch,” Nick said. “Someday, though, I’d like to do a really nice drawing of you. I owe you a piece of artwork, remember? After all, I tore one of your posters up.”
“I remember,” Trixie said. “I understand, now, why you did it. You were upset because you couldn’t disobey your father and feeling guilty because you couldn’t explain to me why you wouldn’t help at the bikeathon. When you saw that poster, your feelings just boiled over—the way mine often do. You don’t owe me a portrait because of that, though, Nick.”
“Well, if Trixie doesn’t want it, I do,” Jim said. “I plan to hold you to your promise of drawing a really nice portrait of her, Nick.”
While the laughter and conversation bubbled around them, Trixie and Honey walked over to the Bob-Whites’ bicycles, which Tom Delanoy had brought over earlier that afternoon. The Bob-Whites had decided that they would lead the way on the last leg of the bikeathon, back to Sleepyside and the end of the route. Soon it would be time to go.
“It all worked out so well, Trixie,” Honey said. “We raised a lot of money for the art department, caught the counterfeiters, and made a new friend in the process.”
“We made two new friends, Honey,” Trixie reminded her, looking toward the spot where Ben Riker stood, talking with a group of cyclists. “Things couldn’t have worked out better.”
“They certainly couldn’t have,” Dan Mangan said as he, along with the other Bob-Whites, joined the two girls.
“We’d better get everybody back on the road,” Brian said, waving his arm to signal the other cyclists. “I’m ready to get home for a rest. It’s been a long day.”
“We have the whole long, lazy summer coming up in which to rest,” Di said luxuriously.
“The only way to achieve that dream,” Mart said, “would be to buy back your introduction to Trixie. You know she’s bound to get us into more scrapes before fall rolls around.”
“I, for one, am willing to take that risk,” Jim said teasingly. “I have a feeling that the rest of you are, too. Come on, Bob-Whites! Let’s go!”
The Art Fair • 1
A Shattered Vase • 2
Big Plans ● 3
A Ruined Picnic • 4
Depression ● 5
A Piece of Charred Paper • 6
Posters and Apologies • 7
The Sign-Up ● 8
Mysteries • 9
Suspicions Coincidences • 10
At Mrs. Vanderpoel’s • 11
The Trophy Shop ● 12
Sinister Warnings • 13
A Confession • 14
Bob-Whites Divided! • 15
At the Abandoned House • 16
Explanations • 17
New Friends • 18
Table of Contents
The Art Fair • 1
A Shattered Vase • 2
Big Plans ● 3
A Ruined Picnic • 4
Depression ● 5
A Piece of Charred Paper • 6
Posters and Apologies • 7
The Sign-Up ● 8
Mysteries • 9
Suspicions Coincidences • 10
At Mrs. Vanderpoel’s • 11
The Trophy Shop ● 12
Sinister Warnings • 13
A Confession • 14
Bob-Whites Divided! • 15
At the Abandoned House • 16
Explanations • 17
New Friends • 18
The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road Page 13