The Mystery of Cabin Island

I

Iceboating on the Bay

Driven by a stiff breeze from the west, a trim little iceboat went scudding over the frozen surface of Barmet Bay. The winter air was cold and clear, the hills rising from the shores were blanketed in snow, and although a patch of black water away off toward the east gave evidence that King Frost had been balked at the Atlantic, the bay itself was a gleaming sheet of ice.

The long cold snap had caused rejoicing in the hearts of the young folk of Bayport. Although the ice in mid-bay was not solid, along the shore and in the numerous coves of the indented bay it was frozen to a safe depth. The dark figures of skaters sped like swallows in flight on the miniature natural rinks close to shore, and farther out the speeding iceboats with their billowing sails resembled huge sea gulls as they raced before the wind.

Frank Hardy, a dark, handsome boy of sixteen, was at the tiller of the craft that represented several weeks’ hard work on the part of himself and his brother Joe. Although it was homemade, the iceboat was staunch and stoutly built and as it sped over the gleaming surface the boys were justifiably proud of their handiwork.

“This is great!” shouted Frank. “Iceboating beats motorboating all to pieces.”

Joe, a fair, curly-haired youngster who was a year Frank’s junior, was sitting forward with their chum, Chet Morton.

“I’ll say it is!” he agreed. “I don’t think there’s a faster boat on the bay.”

Chet, plump and good-natured, his round face red with cold and shining like a full moon, kicked up his heels in ecstasy and nearly went overboard as the boat swerved to avoid an ice hummock ahead.

“This is real speed!” he declared, scrambling back to safety. “No traffic cops out here, either.”

“Glad tomorrow is Saturday,” said Frank. “We can spend the whole day out here.”

“And the holidays!” exclaimed Joe. “Don’t forget the Christmas holidays. Only another week.”

“I’m glad you reminded me,” Chet called out. “I had clean forgotten about them.”

The others laughed. In his desk at school, Chet had a small calendar, and as each day passed he carefully stroked out the date and hopefully counted the days that remained before vacation.

“What say we go camping when the holidays come?” he suggested.

“Camping!” Frank exclaimed. “Camping is for summer time.”

“Just as much fun in winter. There are lots of shacks and cottages along shore. We could rent one for a couple of weeks. One with a fireplace and a stove. With lots of firewood and blankets and grub we’d be as comfortable as we could wish—and think of the fun we’d have iceboating.”

“Say, that’s a mighty good idea,” ventured Joe. “Sometimes you do use your head for something besides putting your hat on it. What do you think, Frank?”

“I think that Chet has had a real idea—for once in his life.”

Chet grinned good-naturedly at this chaff of his comrades.

“Well, if it’s a good idea, let’s carry it through.”

Further discussion of the proposal was interrupted just then by the appearance of two large iceboats racing out of one of the coves almost even with each other.

“A race!” shouted Frank. “Let’s go.”

He maneuvered the boat around and waited until the other boats were abreast, jockeying to get the full benefit of the wind. Then, when all three boats were on a line, they shot forward.

The boys in the other craft waved to the Hardy boys and shouted. On down the bay, over the smooth surface, sped the trio. The lad at the tiller of the biggest boat, over to the left, became excited and his craft swung around broadside. By the time he got around with the wind again his rivals had forged steadily ahead and he saw that it was almost hopeless to attempt to overtake them.

The remaining craft had an advantage over the Hardy boys’ boat in that it had been constructed by a professional builder in Bayport. Its lines were trim and graceful and it had a wider spread of canvas. But the boy at the tiller found that he could not shake off the homemade boat that scudded persistently alongside.

Frank was taking advantage of every changing gust of wind. The breeze was changing and he tacked to starboard, allowing his rival a momentary burst of speed that left the Hardy boys trailing in the rear.

“Too bad!” muttered Chet. “Can’t beat that boat.”

“Just wait and see,” advised Frank.

The changing breeze filled the sail and again the iceboat sprang forward. The other craft was slowing down, and the steersman was desperately trying to bring it about with the wind again. But he was too late. The Hardy boys’ boat swept triumphantly across his bow and Chet gave a shout of delight. On down the bay sped the little craft and by the time the other boat’s sails were billowing again the lads were far in the lead. Looking back, they saw the beaten rival slowly turning about into the wind, heading back up the bay.

“That’s real seamanship!” declared Joe.

“Oh, well, we have a good boat,” returned Frank, refusing to claim any credit for the victory. “We were lucky the wind changed.”

Ahead of them loomed a high, gloomy cliff, rising sheer from the ice. Beyond that, they knew, was one of the largest coves on Barmet Bay, known as Cabin Cove.

“Let’s go on and take a look at Cabin Island,” suggested Chet. “Seeing we’re so close to the place we might as well pay it a visit.”

“Sure thing,” approved the others.

Cabin Island, in Cabin Cove, was a lonely spot, even more desolate now that the bay was locked in ice. It was seldom visited, even in the summer months, because it was an inhospitable place, with high cliffs rising almost directly from the water, with only a few landing places that were difficult of access.

The Hardy boys had often wanted to visit the island in the summer, but their motorboat, the Sleuth, was too large to be maneuvered among the rocks that skirted the lonely shore, without running danger of being dashed to pieces by the angry waves.

“We won’t have any trouble making a landing now,” said Frank. “We can bring the iceboat right up to the base of the cliffs until we find a place where it is possible to climb to the top.”

The island was heavily covered with timber, and at one time it had been inhabited, for a big log cabin had been constructed on an eminence overlooking the bay. From this cabin, the island had derived its name. The cabin was deserted now, and to the boys’ knowledge no one had lived there for the past five years, either in summer or winter.

The iceboat swung around the point, the cliffs lowering bleakly overhead, and they sped down into the great cove.

Cabin Island, dark and austere, lay before them, the ice gleaming on every side. The evergreen timber rose above the white snow, and at the southern end of the island the cabin could be plainly seen.

Within a few minutes, the iceboat was speeding along in the lee of the island, close to the steep walls of rock. The boys eagerly scanned the cliffs in the hope of finding a landing place.

At last Frank gave a murmur of satisfaction and steered the craft toward a break in the cliff. Here there was a small ravine and against the background of snow the boys distinctly saw a path that wound up the sloping side of the ravine toward the cabin above.

“Thought there’d be a landing place here somewhere,” he said.

“Queer,” said Chet, eyeing the path. “Must be someone on that island.”

“There are footprints, sure enough.”

“It snowed three days ago. There must have been someone here since then,” Joe observed.

“Probably some other chaps came out here in an iceboat,” said Frank carelessly. “If that’s the case, they’ve been kind enough to break trail for us.”

He guided the iceboat into the little bay and its sail flapped idly as it came to a stop just a few feet from shore. The boys hopped out on to the ice and stretched their legs, then anchored the craft and made it secure. The little bay was sheltered from the wind. It was a natural harbor, and evidently the owner of the island had built his cabin where he did because of this ideal landing place that in summer was almost hidden from view by the overhanging trees.

Frank was examining the footprints leading toward the upper level.

“Only one set of footprints here,” he said. “They seem quite fresh, too. I wonder if anyone is up there now.”

“Must be,” returned Joe. “The footprints lead up the hill, but there is none leading back.”

“Perhaps he went down the other side,” Chet suggested. “Well, we can’t let that scare us away. Let’s go.”

With Frank in the lead, the boys began to ascend the winding path, following those mysterious footprints in the snow.

They were about halfway up the side of the ravine when suddenly a dark figure appeared from behind a clump of trees a few yards ahead. A surly-looking man, black-browed and swarthy, advanced toward them, striding through the snow.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rasping voice.

“Just thought we’d explore the island, sir,” answered Frank. “We hope you don’t mind.”

“I do mind!” retorted the stranger curtly. “Get away from here and stay away. I don’t allow visitors.”

“But—”

“No argument!” he snapped. “You’re trespassing here. Get away, now. Make tracks.”

“We won’t damage anything,” piped Chet.

“Do you hear me? Get off this island at once! Clear out, and be quick about it!”

The stranger glared at them angrily. Frank saw that nothing would be gained by arguing the matter. He shrugged.

“All right, sir.”

“Thanks for the hospitality!” sang out Chet, as the boys turned about and retraced their steps down the path.