“I heard the knocking and it woke me up.”
“We all heard it,” Frank said. “Is that what made you yell?”
“Naw. Sherlock’s what made me holler.” Chet said that when he had reached for his fiashlight, he had put his hand into the hound’s mouth!
“It scared me,” Chet went on. “That warm, wet tongue. Ugh! I guess Sherlock sleeps with his mouth open.”
“Remind me to have his adenoids removed,” Biff said with a chuckle.
“Listen, fellows,” Frank put in. “How come the knocking?”
“Maybe some ghosts are conducting a séance,” Biff joked.
“It isn’t funny,” Chet said.
Frank suggested they get out and take a look around. By now the wind had decreased, but the apple-tree branches moved slightly in the breeze.
The beams of their flashlights revealed a low-hanging limb over the camper. A cluster of green apples swayed back and forth, barely brushing against the top.
“There’s the answer,” Biff said. “In the high wind the apples knocked on our roof!”
“And scared all of us,” Frank said. “Boy, are we ever brave!”
Before they climbed into their bunks again, Chet tied the dog to the refrigerator door. In the morning he found the door open and Sherlock poking around some well-wrapped meat. Chet scornfully ordered the hound outside and told Biff his dog would have to sleep under the stars hereafter.
“The chef’s got some rights too!” Chet grumbled.
“Okay,” Biff said, stretching. “Quit talking and start producing.”
After he had splashed himself with cold water, Chet busied himself at the stove, while Frank, Joe, and Biff went to get some heavy sweaters from the car, which was parked about fifty feet away in a clearing.
Approaching it, Joe dashed suddenly forward. “Of all the rotten tricks!”
Frank hastened to his side. “What’s the matter?”
“The tires! All four of them—flat!”
“Can’t be,” Biff said. “Maybe it’s just the tall grass that gives it that appearance.”
Closer examination disproved Biff’s wishful thinking. Air had been let out of all four tires. Worse than that, someone had removed the valve cores!
“Now we’re in real trouble,” Frank said.
“We’ve got a foot pump, haven’t we?” asked Biff.
“Sure, but we don’t have any spare cores,” Joe replied.
“Who could have done it?” Frank turned to scan the orchard as far up the hill as he could see.
Their speculation was interrupted by Chet calling, “Come and get it! Ham and eggs on the menu this morning!”
When Chet heard the bad news about the flat tires he almost dropped the skillet. “Listen,” he said as he served the others, “why don’t we ride down to the shore for a nice quiet holiday instead of going west?”
“Um, good eggs,” Frank said, ignoring Chet’s comment.
“Look, I’ve got part of a shell here,” Biff complained with a wink.
“No extra charge,” Chet said cheerfully. “If you don’t like it, save it for Sherlock.”
“Yeah, what about him?” Biff asked. “Has he had—?”
“I gave that hound chow first thing,” Chet replied.
“Good man,” Biff said. “Do we get seconds?”
“Sure.”
Chet cracked two white shells and neatly dropped the eggs into the skillet.
When they finished breakfast Frank said he would have to hitchhike into the next town to buy valve cores. As he stepped out of the trailer, a short, heavy-set man wearing dungarees and a blue denim shirt strode down the hill with a look of determination on his face.
“Oh, oh. More trouble,” Frank called to the others.
The three boys came outside to see what was going on. The stranger was about forty, sunburned, and with bulging biceps that bespoke days of hard manual labor.
“Good morning,” Frank said pleasantly.
“What’s good about it?” said the man tartly. “I can have you all arrested and I’ve a good mind to do it!” He introduced himself as the owner of the orchard and went on, “You kids think you can drive in here and squat on private property?”
The boys felt embarrassed, realizing that they had done the wrong thing. Frank tried to appease the farmer.
“We—we didn’t see any houses around,” Frank explained.
“Then you didn’t look hard enough,” the farmer said. He turned halfway around and pointed to the top of the ridge. “My place is right over there.”
“Well, gee, we were hungry and tired,” Biff put in. “All we wanted was to eat some chow and hit the sack.”
“You should have asked permission to camp here,” the farmer insisted.
“Don’t you think you’ve punished us enough?” said Joe, a little more vehemently than he had intended.
“What do you mean by that?”
“All our tires are flat.”
“Are you accusing me?” The farmer’s jaw thrust forward, and he took a step closer.
“Oh no offense meant,” Joe said. “That is if you didn’t do it.”
The farmer half-smiled in spite of himself. “If I wanted to punish you, I’d give you a boot in the britches.”
The expression made the boys laugh. Their humor was infectious and the man joined in with a loud guffaw.
“Honest,” Frank said, leading the way to the Hardys’ car. “Someone came in here last night and deflated us.”
“And took the valve cores, too,” Joe added. “We’re really stuck.”
The farmer pursed his lips and shook his head. “Too bad. But I think I can help you.”
“Have you got some spares?” Frank asked quickly.
“Yep. Up in the barn. Come along, young fellow, and I’ll give them to you.”
Frank apologized again.
“Forget it,” the farmer said. “You told me once, that’s enough.”
Frank had trouble keeping up with the man, whose sturdy legs were used to climbing the hilL Tagging a few feet behind, he finally came to the ridge and saw a snug farmhouse sheltered just below the brow of the slope. A barn stood nearby, with baskets stacked along the side. A mud-splat tered half-ton pickup was in the driveway.
While Frank waited, the farmer went into the barn and returned with a flat, thin packet containing four valve cores.
“Let me pay you,” Frank said, reaching into his pocket.
“No need. And if you want a place to camp on your way back from wherever you’re going, just toot your horn a couple of times to let me know.”
Frank thanked the man, then trotted over the hilL Going down the other side, he saw Biff circling the orchard with Sherlock straining at the leash. Chet and Joe followed close behind them.
When Frank caught up with the group, he asked, “What’s up?”
“I had a hunch,” Joe replied. “Gave Sherlock a smell of the inner sole from Whip Lasher’s shoe.”
“And old Sherlock picked up the trail,” Biff added, restraining the hound.
Frank declared, “So that’s who let the air out of our tires!”
“Didn’t Collig say he was a practical joker?” Chet said. Then he shuddered. “Hey! Think what might have happened. That goon could have murdered us all in our sleep!”
Frank agreed they should be extra-cautious. The bloodhound led them closer and closer to the highway. However, when they reached the edge of the road, Sherlock lost the scent.
Suddenly Joe remembered something. “I’ll bet he was the guy who stopped ahead of us when we drove in here.”
“You could be right,” Frank admitted.
“Sure. He waited to play his dirty trick until we were asleep.”
The valve cores were replaced quickly. Using a foot pump, the boys labored hard to inflate the tires. Luckily the side walls had not separated from the rims and the boys completed the task successfully.
Leg-weary from the pumping, they folded up their ca
mper and the caravan was on its way again. That night and the following one were spent in small trailer camps, where the fees were modest and the facilities good. They were now approaching the area where many of the Magnacard swindles had taken place.
The Hardys consulted the list of dealers who had been victimized, and stopped in stores in three different towns. There they learned that at least two other men besides Whip Lasher had purchased goods, most of it sporting equipment. They were both described as shorter than average, stout, and dark-haired.
One merchant, in particular, was furious. “Those polecats got a beautiful cabin cruiser from me,” he said.
“That would be sort of hard to hide, wouldn’t it?” asked Joe.
“Well, it was several days before I realized I had been swindled,” the man replied. “By that time they could have been thousands of miles away from here.”
“I don’t think it would be easy to sell a high-priced boat like that,” Frank said.
The man shrugged. “I suppose if they can’t sell it they’ll use it themselves.”
Then he cocked his head. “You say you’re after the swindlers?”
“Right,” Joe replied.
“Well, I’d advise you to keep your eyes open in all camping spots.”
“That’s what we intend to do,” Frank said.
After jotting down the cruiser’s description and engine number, the boys set off on the highway again. Toward late afternoon, Joe studied the map and picked out a large trailer park fifty miles ahead.
“I’m all for stopping there,” Chet said. “It’s getting late.”
When they pulled into the camp, the boys were surprised to see how large it was. In one section trailers were parked close together, and the vacationers sat on folding chairs, chatting with their neighbors. Some of the house trailers had plaques on the doors, with the names and addresses of their owners.
Joe drove to a secluded spot, where they quickly set up the camper. As they finished their evening meal, a loudspeaker boomed out the announcement there would be a talent show that evening.
“Come one, come all and enjoy the fun,” the announcer said. “We’ll meet at nine o’clock at the campfire.”
“How about it, Joe?” Frank asked. “Want to show them a little Bayport talent with that guitar of yours?”
“Sure,” Joe replied. “If Biff brings his mouth organ.”
“Oh, come on,” Biff said. “Don’t you think a big guy like me would look funny playing a little bitty harmonica?”
Frank noticed the pout on Chet’s face. “Now don’t feel left out, Chet,” he said. “Maybe you could do a hula dance. Did you bring your grass skirt?”
“Lay off, will you!” Chet retorted. “I got another surprise for you.”
“What’s that?” Joe asked brightly.
Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted that he had been practicing on a jew’s-harp.
“Hey, that’s great!” said Joe. “Then all three of us will do our thing!”
“Sure,” Frank added. “The Bayport Symphony. I hope they have a talent scout from Hollywood here tonight.”
The boys laughed, looking forward to an evening of fun. Shortly after dark the park manager trucked a load of logs to a pit in the center of the grounds. A huge bonfire was started and its flames lighted up the night.
After a crowd had gathered around, the master of ceremonies called for volunteers to entertain. One boy stepped forward with a trumpet. After a good jazz rendition, he was followed by a solo drummer.
“Not bad,” Frank said. Then he introduced the Bayport Symphony. But before the boys could plunge into the folk tunes they had planned, the stillness of the evening was broken by the staccato sound of a motorcycle.
A small trail bike weaved around the edge of the crowd. The rider, a young fellow with flying blond hair, grinned devilishly at the onlookers.
The emcee ordered him away and the bike turned back. When the put-put of the motor faded out, Joe, Biff, and Chet launched into their act. The crowd clapped and howled with laughter as Chet did a soft-shoe while playing the jew’s-harp.
Then suddenly the trail bike chattered again like a machine gun.
“That guy must be nuts,” Biff declared as the driver whizzed past where they were standing.
Joe jumped out of the way, lost his balance, and dropped his guitar. Biff shook his fist at the cyclist, who turned around and headed for them again.
Nimbly the boys jumped aside, but the rider was not aiming at them. He took a leap at the guitar.
Crunch! It was cut to pieces by the trail bike!
CHAPTER V
A Strange Hiding Place
WHEN the trail bike smashed Joe’s guitar, cries of dismay came from the onlookers. Joe sprinted after the rider, but his flying legs were no match for the motorbike. It arrowed out of the camp gate and disappeared down the road.
When Joe trotted back, Frank was gingerly picking up the pieces. He turned to his brother. “I’m afraid this is totaled.”
Joe seethed with anger at the senseless act of destruction.
Chet said, “Some nerve that creep’s got! He’s driving around on the main road without lights or even a vehicle registration. Someone’ll catch up with him sooner or later!”
“That someone’s going to be me!” Joe vowed. He took the remains of his instrument and tossed them into a trash can.
The Hardys wondered whether the youth had a trailer in the area, and began to query the people who had gathered around to offer consolations to the Bayport Symphony. All were incensed over the vicious incident.
Light from the big bonfire flickered across their concerned faces as they gave Frank and Joe some bits and pieces of information. Several campers had seen the blond youth before. One of them, a man from Texas, had warned him to use the unlicensed cycle only on the mountain trails.
“But of course he paid no attention to me,” the man said.
A young woman pushed her way through the crowd and told Joe, “If you’re looking for that mean boy I may know where he’s staying.”
“You do?” Joe said in surprise. “Where?”
The woman said that the day before the same trail bike had zipped past her on the highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “I saw it pull up to a camp,” she said. “It’s two and a half miles from here, off to the right.”
Joe thanked her and decided to visit the place the next morning.
That night Sherlock was tied up outside and the night passed quietly.
“What are you going to tell that hoodlum when you see him?” Chet asked as he prepared breakfast.
“Nothing,” Joe replied. “I’m going to punch him in the nose.”
“That is if you find him,” Biff said. “Suppose he’s left already?”
“Come on, Chet. Hurry up,” Joe said. “We can’t wait all day for the sausages.”
Half an hour later they were ready to go. Frank drove out of the area and onto the highway. Exactly two and a half miles down the road Frank slowed, and the boys peered into the heavy growth of trees and brush on the right side.
“Look, I see it!” Joe called out. “Turn here, Frank.”
The lane, made by car wheels, was barely visible. Frank drove in slowly with twigs cracking under the tires. As they approached a small clearing they saw a trailer, the kind that normally sleeps two. No car was in evidence, but the trail bike was propped against a tree. Painted on the gas tank were two words: Vampire Trail.
The only person in sight was the blond-haired youth. He was washing tin dishes in a pan of water. When the car drew nearer, he turned around. Joe got out first, walked up to him, and said, “I’m Joe Hardy. Who are you?”
The boy pushed the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Name’s Juice Barden. What do you want?” He had a thin face and light-blue eyes which blinked nervously. Joe judged him to be about eighteen years old.
“Look, you broke my guitar last night,” Joe said.
“So?”
&n
bsp; “So it’s no joke. You’re going to pay for it!”
“Now there’s a real joke,” Juice said arrogantly. “You didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”
“You’ve got no right to buzz a trail bike around a crowd of people!”
“La-de-da,” replied Juice. He reached down, picked up a half-empty bottle of orange soda, and took a swig.
Infuriated, Joe cocked his right arm and was about to let fly with a punch when Biff grabbed him. “Don’t hit Junior, he’s no match for you,” Biff said. “We’ll just wait to see his father and tell him what a bad boy he has.”
Juice sneered, “You think you’re great because there are four of you.”
Chet, meanwhile, was strolling around the campsite. From nails driven into the trees hung a few pieces of drying laundry and a blackened skillet. Chet spied a guitar dangling on a leather thong.
“Hey, Joe, look at this!” he called out. “You want a guitar? Here’s one!” Chet lifted the instrument off the nail and walked over to Joe.
Juice took a step forward but thought better of interfering. “You can’t take that!” he declared.
“Oh no? I’ll keep it until you buy me a new one,” Joe said.
Juice replied coolly, “Fingers won’t like it.”
“Fingers?” asked Chet. “Who’s he?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
The four boys shrugged and turned to leave. Joe looked back for a moment. “Okay, Barden. Tell Fingers the guitar is in good hands.”
“What a crumb!” Chet muttered as they got into the car.
“I wonder who this Fingers is,” said Biff.
“My guess,” Joe said, “is that he’s some fancy pants dumb-dumb. What’s the old saying—birds of a feather flock together?”
“Is it a good guitar?” asked Biff as Frank started off.
“Fair, I’d say,” Joe declared after strumming a few notes. “Mine was a lot better.”
They sped westward for an hour and when Biff spelled Frank at the wheel they stopped to admire a spectacular waterfall. It gushed out from a crevice in the pine hills and churned white on rocks close to the road’s edge, before boiling under the highway bridge. The boys got out and stood on the bridge to enjoy the sight, until Biff became impatient.
Danger on Vampire Trail Page 3