CHAPTER 1 Found in the Sand

“Unless a breeze springs up soon, we’ll be late for the Cub Scout meeting in the Cave,” Dan Carter complained.

Sprawled in the drifting dinghy, the sandy-haired boy raised his eyes to the limp sail which hung in discouraged folds from the tall mast.

“We’ve already missed the first part of it,” remarked Midge Holloway.

A freckled youth of ten, he had draped himself pretzel-fashion over the boat’s bow. His skinny legs dangled a bare inch above the placid surface of the wide river.

“What time is it anyhow?” he demanded.

At the tiller of the sailboat, Midge’s father, Burton Holloway, snapped on his flashlight to see the dial of his wrist watch. An official “Den Dad” of Webster City Den No. 2, he frequently made river trips with the boys and allowed them to use his sailboat whenever they liked.

On this summer day, the three, after scrubbing the craft’s fouled bottom, had set forth for a brief sail. The wind, however, had died suddenly, leaving them stranded far from their Yacht Club moorings.

“It’s ten after eight,” Mr. Holloway answered his son. “We’ll have to work a little if we expect to get in tonight.”

Reaching for a paddle, he plied it steadily. With snail-like speed the awkward-sized dinghy moved toward the twinkling lights visible on shore. With the coming of darkness, a cold, penetrating fog had closed in over the water.

“Wish I’d brought a jacket,” Dan said with a shiver. “Want me to take a turn at the paddle, Mr. Holloway?”

“No thanks, Dan, I’m good for awhile yet. I blame myself for being stranded out here. The wind was dying when we left the yacht club. So I guess we asked for trouble!”

For some time Mr. Holloway paddled in silence. Now and then a big fish would leap and plop into the water nearby. Otherwise, the river seemed unusually quiet.

Then unexpectedly from the direction of Skeleton Island came the muffled roar of a powerful motor boat engine.

Dan twisted around to gaze upstream. He could hear the sound of the motor plainly but the running lights of the approaching craft were not yet visible through the mist.

“If that boat comes this way, we’ll ask for a tow,” Mr. Holloway remarked. “Maybe we’re in luck.”

Resting on the paddle for a moment, the Den Dad allowed the dinghy to drift with the current. The roar of the motorboat engine now had increased in volume. Yet strangely, no one in the sailboat had sighted the oncoming craft.

“Can it be running without lights?” Mr. Holloway remarked somewhat anxiously. “The pilot should know better than that.”

Through the mist, Dan suddenly made out the dark, sleek outline of a speed craft which rode low in the water. Foam boiled from her prow as she split the waves.

“There she is!” the boy exclaimed. “Heading this way, and coming fast!”

Alarmed lest the craft run down the sailboat in the darkness, Mr. Holloway turned the beam of his flashlight upon the limp sail overhead. To make certain that they were seen, he flashed the light on and off several times.

No answering response came from the motorboat which drove directly toward the sailboat.

“Can’t they see us?” Mr. Holloway demanded anxiously.

The motor craft now was so close that those in the stranded sailboat caught a fleeting glimpse of a stout man in dungarees who manned the wheel. Of square jaw, the upper part of his face was hidden by a billed sailor’s cap.

“Hey, look out!” Dan yelled. “Turn on your running lights!”

The pilot evidently heard for he swerved the wheel slightly. And then deliberately, as if angered by the boy’s remark, he spun the spokes again, bearing directly down upon the drifting sailboat.

Instinctively, Mr. Holloway and the two Cubs braced themselves for a crash.

The pilot of the speed boat laughed boisterously. Having accomplished his purpose—that of frightening the occupants of the sailing dinghy—he then swerved away.

But he had misjudged the distance. As the motorboat swung, its stern grazed the mid-section of the sailing craft. Though the blow was a glancing one, mahogany splintered with a grinding crash.

Choppy waves flung the sailboat far over on its beam. Water began to seep in through a break in the over-lap.

Instead of throttling down, the motorboat sped away into the darkness.

“Why, that dirty crook!” Midge exclaimed furiously. “He’s wrecked our boat, and he doesn’t even intend to stop! Hey, you!”

The man at the wheel turned slightly. In the moment before he raised his hand to cover the exposed lower part of his face, Dan obtained a fleeting but clear view of him. Two others in the boat crouched low and kept their backs turned.

Mr. Holloway leaped to his feet in the teetering sailboat. Flashing his light on the disappearing craft, he tried to discern the license number. None was visible.

Despite the shouts of Mr. Holloway and the Cubs, the boat did not slacken speed. Soon it was nearly out of sight, still running without lights.

“Those men should be arrested!” Midge declared. “They struck us on purpose!”

Dan had noticed that his feet were resting in an inch of water.

“Say, we’ve sprung a leak!” he cried, scrambling for a bailing can which was kept under the seat. “Now we are in a jam!”

The latest emergency caused Mr. Holloway to divert his attention from the motorboat. Anxiously, he examined the jagged hole in the mahogany over-lap through which a trickle of water oozed.

“Midge, give me that rag under the seat!” he directed.

As his son handed it over, Mr. Holloway wedged it as tightly as he could into the larger hole, pressing it in with his knife blade.

“That should help some, but we’re still shipping water,” he said anxiously. “We’ll have to bail.”

Already Dan was at work dipping with the tin can which was kept for just such an emergency. While Mr. Holloway paddled hard for shore, he and Midge took turns dipping water from the bottom of the boat. By working steadily, they could keep ahead of it.

“I’d certainly like to know who those men were that struck us,” Mr. Holloway remarked. “Aside from the damage they’ve done to our boat, they’re a menace on the river.”

“Dad, didn’t you think the boat looked a little like Jonathan Manheim’s?” Midge inquired. “It was built on the same general lines.”

“I did notice a resemblance,” Mr. Holloway replied. “But I never before saw the man at the wheel. I’d hate to think it was Manheim’s boat.”

Fairly well known to the Cubs, Mr. Manheim was the owner of Skeleton Island and a prominent member of the Webster City Yacht Club.

“Do you think he would try to run us down deliberately?” Dan asked, working steadily with the bailing can.

“It doesn’t seem so to me, Dan. It’s possible that someone else borrowed his boat. However, since we failed to get the license number, it’s useless to speculate.”

“Odd that the boat was showing no lights,” Dan said thoughtfully. “Also, I wonder if it carried a license?”

By this time even the faint roar of the motorboat’s engine had died away far up the river. Mr. Holloway and the Cubs knew by following the sound that the craft had not returned to the Webster City Yacht Club. Where it would dock they could not guess.

“You’ll try to make those men pay for the damage, won’t you, Dad?” Midge demanded. The shore now was so close he could see the twinkling lights which marked the outline of the yacht club slip.

“I certainly will if I can, Midge. Unfortunately, we have no proof it was Manheim’s boat.”

“He may have a few scratches to show, Dad.”

“Yes, if we notice tomorrow that his speedboat is banged up, we can be quite certain he’s the guilty party. Even so, we’ll have to be rather careful in taking the matter up with him. Manheim has many friends in the club.”

“He won’t have ’em long if he makes a practice of running down sailboats,” said Midge. “We’re lucky our boat didn’t sink.”

Five minutes later, the dinghy, heavily logged with water, limped to its berth at the yacht club dock.

“Hurry on to your Cub Scout meeting, boys,” Mr. Holloway urged. “I’ll look after the boat and make a few inquiries around the club.”

Thus urged, Dan and Midge hastened along a graveled path which curled toward a steep hillside overlooking the water front.

A long flight of wooden steps led up to a natural limestone cave in the rocks high above the beach. Some months before, the Cubs by hard labor had converted this cavern into a meeting place. The room now was attractively furnished with a couch, table, magazines and trophies.

Breathless from hurrying, the boys reached the Cave entranceway. Already the Cub meeting was in progress.

Sam Hatfield, athletic coach at Webster High School, and Cub leader, stood in the center of the cavern talking earnestly to the boys.

Grouped about him in the lighted room were Brad Wilber who was Den Chief, Chips Davis, Red Suell, Mack Tibbets, and Sam’s own son, Fred Hatfield.

“Glad to see you, boys,” the Cub leader greeted Dan and Midge. “But aren’t you a little late?”

Stammering apologies, Dan and Midge explained that they had been delayed on the river. Without mentioning Mr. Manheim’s name, they related how their boat had been smashed.

“I knew something unusual must have kept you away from the meeting,” declared the Cub leader. “Too bad about Mr. Holloway’s boat. I hope you catch those fellows.”

“Have we missed much of the meeting, Mr. Hatfield?” Dan asked anxiously.

“Not the treasure hunt,” the Cub leader reassured him. “We just wound up the business meeting. Briefly, the Den has decided upon two goals for the summer. The first is to win the Pack swimming meet next month.”

“That’s where you come in, Dan,” spoke up Brad. Nearly fourteen, the dark-haired youngster was a Boy Scout and the acknowledged leader of the Cubs. Even-tempered, quick of wit and fair, he had earned the respect of the younger, boys.

“How so?” Dan caught him up.

“You’re the best swimmer in the outfit. We’re depending on you to crash through and win the silver cup for Den 2.”

“I’ll do my best,” Dan promised with a pleased grin. “Guess I’ll have to get busy right away and polish off my crawl stroke.”

“What’s the second goal, Mr. Hatfield?” Midge inquired.

“Well, the Cubs have voted to help the Scouts earn enough money to buy a permanent camp on Skeleton Island.”

“Skeleton Island?” Midge repeated, glancing quickly at Dan. “Mr. Manheim’s place?”

“Yes, the camp will belong to the Scouts, but our Den will have the privilege of using it for day trips and occasional over-night jaunts.”

“We need both your votes on the project,” Brad interposed. “Since it’s to be a Scout rather than a Cub camp, we don’t aim to go into it unless every member of the Den is in favor of the idea.”

“Why buy a chunk of Skeleton Island?” Midge inquired.

“It’s the only suitable island hereabouts,” Mr. Hatfield explained. “We figure Mr. Manheim shouldn’t ask too high a figure for a small beach section. Of course, if you boys are against the project—”

“You may have my vote,” Dan said after a slight hesitation.

“And mine,” added Midge, a trifle reluctantly. “I just hope you’re right about Mr. Manheim being generous enough to sell at a low price.”

Being uncertain that their dinghy had been struck by Mr. Manheim’s motorboat, neither Midge nor Dan told the Cubs why mention of his name had disturbed them.

The business meeting presently ended with the boys gathering in a circle to repeat the Cub Promise.

“I promise TO DO MY BEST

To be SQUARE and

To OBEY the law of the Cub Pack.”

Parents began to drift into the Cave. On this particular night, a beach treasure hunt had been planned. Everything now was in readiness. Clues had been carefully hidden throughout the beach area.

Red Suell’s father handed out typewritten slips of paper containing hints in scrambled letters.

“You’re to hunt in pairs,” he instructed the Cubs. “The treasure chest has been hidden somewhere within a quarter mile of the Cave. The first pair to find it should signal by giving the Cub whistle. Then we’ll all join on the beach for a feed before going home.”

Dan and Brad drew identical numbers which meant they were to hunt together. Eagerly they scanned their slip of paper on which appeared the scrambled sentence:

“Dinf eht glgyascr koa.”

“The first two words are ‘find the—,’” Dan discerned at a glance. “But what are those other two mind-teasers?”

“The last one is oak,” Brad contributed. “‘Find the oak!’ But what kind of oak?”

“Scraggly oak!” Dan deciphered the final word. “Come on, Brad!”

With a shout, the two boys were off, leaving the other Cubs to puzzle out their various clues. Clattering down the steps, the pair raced across the smooth sand.

The light of a pale moon plainly silhouetted a stunted oak tree against the dark sky. Making a bee line for it, the boys searched diligently for another clue.

“Here it is!” Dan suddenly shouted.

At the base of the tree he had found a small cardboard box. Inside was another scrambled sentence which directed the boys to search for a large piece of driftwood.

“The beach is littered with washed-up debris,” Brad observed. “This game is getting tougher.”

Other Cubs now began to appear on the water front. However, as each clue was different, the treasure hunters remained widely separated.

Brad and Dan turned up perhaps twenty pieces of driftwood before they found their third clue. The scrambled message required a long time to decipher. On a ragged piece of cardboard had been printed:

“Kloo denur a toab dna ouy amy dinf a hsoelv.”

“Look under a boat and you may find a shovel!” Dan finally figured it out. “A shovel! Yipee! That means we’re getting close to the treasure chest. Maybe our next clue will lead us to it.”

“And we’re miles ahead of the other Cubs,” chuckled Brad. “The question is, where’s the boat?”

Neither boy could recall having seen one on the beach that day. Because their clue had directed them to search beneath the craft, they were convinced that the boat must be an old one, probably overturned or abandoned somewhere on the sands.

“Let’s look on that stretch that extends out toward the lighthouse,” Brad proposed. “It’s a lonely spot—just the type of place you’d expect the Den Dads to select for the big treasure chest pay-off.”

Scanning every inch of the sand, the boys dog-trotted toward the lighthouse. As its bright beam swept across the water, Dan noticed a dark outline on the beach some distance ahead.

“That looks like a boat!” he exclaimed.

Focusing their eyes upon it, the boys plunged on through the loose sand. In the semi-darkness Dan paid scant heed to his footing. He stumbled, and then suddenly halted, staring ahead.

A dark object lay half hidden behind a little mound of sand. Unmistakably, the form was human.

“Jeepers!” he whispered. “Jeepers!”

Brad too had seen the figure in the sand and had halted with a jerk.

“What’s this?” he muttered. “Not a joke the Den Dads are pulling on us?”

The form at their feet was that of a boy no older than Dan. One arm outstretched, he lay in a posture of complete exhaustion. His clothing was water-soaked, his dark hair damp.

“This is no joke,” Brad said soberly. “Whoever this youngster is, he’s in bad shape.”