The Haunted Fort Part 11

"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 Oilman'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 Oilman'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 Oilman closed his notebook and said, "Thank you all for a most entertaining evening. Better luck next year!"

As Oilman 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. Oilman'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!

Oilman'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.

Oilman 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 b.u.mped violently into the rowboat. With howls of horror, Chauncey Oilman 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 Mill wood 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.

The clerk shook his head. "You wouldn't catch me in that neck of the woods. From what I hear about that fort, I'd keep as far away as I could. But-good luck."

After informing Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport of their camping plan, the boys loaded up the bateau.

Swiftly they pushed off and headed south. When the fort came into view, they glanced at the flagpole.

The Union Jack was gone.

Joe stopped paddling. "That's weird," he said. "First French, then British, now none!"

"Whoever put them up," said Frank, "may come by boat. He'd have an easier time getting in than climbing the fence."

"By boat," Joe repeated.

The brothers exchanged glances. "You two have an idea," Chet said knowingly. "What is it?"

Frank reminded him of the wet rowboat on Turtle Island, which contradicted the hermit's claim that he had not left the island for a month. "He was mighty opposed to the French claims at Senandaga," Frank recalled. "And don't forget his true account of-Fort Royal. He might have raised the Union Jack."

The bateau was guided past protruding rocks, and into the cove. The boys landed and climbed up to the old fort.

"We might as well start on the outside," Frank suggested, referring to the map. "If you see anything resembling a tomahawk, let out a war whoop."

The boys split up, each taking a designated area of the stone perimeter. They moved slowly along the shallow ditch, inspecting the huge stone blocks as far up the wall as the eye could see.

The task seemed endless and tedious, but they could not afford to dismiss the possibility of finding clues lying outside the fort.

Several hours later Joe called to Chet, "Any luck?"

A fatigued voice echoed from around a bend in the wall. "No. I think I'm going to be counting stones in my sleep."

The young sleuths paused to eat a sandwich, then resumed their search. The afternoon sun grew hotter by the hour. Twice they took breaks at the lakeside, refreshing themselves from canteens.

"There must be a million square miles of stone in this fort." Chet sighed, cooling his bare feet in the water.

A little later first Joe, then Chet, came upon freshly dug and refilled holes outside the ditch.

"Someone else is still searching," Joe remarked.

Suddenly Chet glimpsed a figure watching them from the wooded sh.o.r.e below.

"Ronnie Rush!"

They started toward the student. He turned and disappeared into the woods.

"Snooping again," Joe said. "Maybe he dug these holes."

They decided not to waste time in pursuit-Ronnie had too much of a head start.

It was late afternoon before the boys had finished examining the wall sections still standing. No luck.

There were piles of fallen masonry they had not even touched.

"It'll take us days to go through them," Frank said. "I think tomorrow we should concentrate on the inside."

"Whew! I'm bushed-and empty!" Chet declared. "Let's pitch camp and cook up some grub."

The boys decided not to build their campfire near the fort. "No use advertising our presence," Joe said.

As they started down to the bateau, Frank's foot struck something metallic.

"Look!"

Reaching down, he picked up a wooden-handled, chisel-like tool. There were traces of clay on the blade, which was only slightly rusted.

"It's a sculpture knife!" Frank said, turning it over in his hand. He detected two letters scratched on the wood-R. F.

"The owner's initials."

"Rene Follette, the French sculptor!" Joe burst out. "I wonder what he was doing here!"

"And he believes in Chambord's gold chain," Chet put in. "Except he thinks the British took it. Wow! I'm mixed up!"

Frank said decisively, "We're going to have a talk with Mr. Follette when we get back tomorrow."

Tired and hungry, they set off in the bateau. Reaching a point on the sh.o.r.e beyond the promontory, Joe spotted a small clearing inland. Quickly they tied up and soon had a fire going. The hungry boys thoroughly enjoyed a simple meal of frankfurters and beans. When the sun had dropped behind the western hills, they doused the fire and pushed off in the bateau.

A chilling wind rolled down the lake as they neared the fort, its ma.s.sive, jagged hulk outlined against the night sky.

The Hardys paddled cautiously between the outjutting rocks and pulled ash.o.r.e. Carrying sleeping bags and flashlights, they crept up the slope.

Some fifty yards from the western rampart, they set their gear down behind a thorn apple tree. From here they could also keep watch on the bateau.

For a long time the trio kept their eyes fixed on the fort, alert for any moving figure or signs of activity.

Their ears strained for any suspicious sound, such as the clank of shovels or picks.

Only the noise of summer insects broke the silence. Chet shifted to a more comfortable position.

"Don't even hear a drumbeat," he said in a rea.s.sured tone.

The Hardys were beginning to feel discouraged when Chet whispered, "What's that?" He inched closer to his pals. "L-listen!"

The boughs above them thrashed in a gust of wind. But the Hardys could also hear a hollow, echoing, breathlike sound from the fort!

"Maybe only wind-along the moat," Frank reasoned, listening as the wind died down. The strange sound subsided, but was still audible.

"Wind! I've never heard wind like that!" Joe whispered. "Unless it's coming through the holes and notches in the walls. It sounds like a seash.e.l.l when you hold it up to your ear."

"I know what it is-a ghost breathing!" Chet muttered.

The vigil continued until the boys' eyes ached. Finally the three campers decided to sleep in turns. Past midnight, the wind became stronger and the moon broke through the clouds.

As it did, Frank tensed at a strange image on the fort wall. It looked like a skull!

But it proved to be only an area of gutted masonry with s.p.a.ces resembling eye sockets and teeth.

Later, Chet took his turn on watch and propped himself against the apple tree. "So far nothing suspicious," he thought, relaxing. One second later he suddenly froze.

Thump! Thump! Drumbeats!

His breath locked tight, Chet sat up, trying to detect the direction of the sound.

Thump! Silence. Thump!

Frantically he shook Frank and Joe, who bolted awake. "What is it?"

Above the sighing wind, the Hardys clearly heard the drumbeats. They were not coming from the fort but from somewhere near the lake!