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CHAPTER IX
ON THE TRAIL

“That – that music!” murmured the wooden-legged sailor. “Are there two of those organ grinders? There was one playing at Hiram’s cabin, and now down here – another one – I don’t like it!”

“Why not?” asked Ned, struck by a peculiar look on the man’s generally smiling face.

“Just superstition, I reckon,” was the answer. “But I never yet heard two different hand organs close together on the same day, but what bad luck followed me. I don’t like it, I tell you!”

“This isn’t, necessarily, another hand organ grinder,” remarked Bob as the music came nearer, or, rather the nearer they approached it, for the auto was still progressing.

“Do you mean it could be the same one we heard back at the cabin?” asked Jolly Bill. “That was five miles back. Those dagoes don’t travel that fast.”

“There’s a short trail down Storm Mountain a man can take on foot and beat an auto that has to go by the road,” explained Bob. “Or this man may have been given a lift by some motorist and have started before we did.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” murmured Jolly Bill. “But I’d like to make sure it’s the same one.”

“It is – there he stands,” exclaimed Harry, pointing as they made a turn in the road, and saw the dispenser of music grinding away near a house, out in front of which were several children laughing with delight at the antics of the monkey.

Jolly Bill stared hard at the organ grinder as Bob’s flivver passed him, and it may be said that the grinder also favored the party in the car with a searching glance. However, it appeared to be more of curiosity than anything else, for the man turned aside and called to his monkey, yanking on the long string that was fastened to the collar on the neck of the simian.

“Yes, it’s the same one all right,” murmured Jolly Bill, as they left him behind. “The same one – I’m glad of it.”

He seemed to be brooding over something not connected with the matter in hand, and it was not until Harry made a remark that he took up the telling of the tale.

“Why did you leave any of the gold on the South Sea island?” the lad wanted to know.

“Oh, yes, I started to tell you when that music came along. Well, the reason was that it was Hank Denby’s plan. Hank always had a better head on him than any of the rest of us – he was more business-like. Maybe that’s why the old pirate sailor picked him out to give him the map of the treasure.

“But after we’d located it and got it out – and a precious hard time we had of it to do it in secret so as not to let the natives and some of the worse whites on the island know about it – after that Hank talked to us.

“He reminded us what sailors were like – free spenders when they had anything – saving nothing against a rainy day, and he persuaded us to let him take charge of most of the money – that is the biggest parts of our three shares. He said he’d put it in a safe place and pay it out to us as we needed it. He first divided it all up fair and square – a quarter of the lot to each man – and then asked us to let him handle all of ours but a few thousands we wanted to spend right away.”

“Did you agree to that?” asked Bob, who, with his chums, was eagerly interested in the tale.

“Yes, we did. We knew Hank had a better head than the rest of us, so we turned our shares over to him.”

“And buried it back on that island?” asked Harry.

“Oh, no, we brought it away with us. That island was too far away and too hard to get at to leave any gold there. Hank said there was just as good hiding places in the town where he lived.”

“You mean here in Cliffside?” cried Ned.

“Cliffside’s the place!” announced Jolly Bill Hickey. “Hank said he could hide the money where nobody would ever find it without a map, and that’s just what he’s done. And now he’s dead and the map is in that brass-bound box and who’s got the box I don’t know! It’s fair maddening – that’s what it is!”

Jolly Bill seemed anything but like his name then.

“But say – look here!” exclaimed Ned. “Do you mean to say that after Mr. Denby got you three to intrust the most of your shares to him, that he wouldn’t give them back to you?”

“That’s what he did!” exclaimed Jolly Bill. “Not but what he had a right to under the circumstances. I’ll say that for him.”

“What circumstances?” asked Bob.

“Well, we acted foolish,” confessed the one-legged sailor, as if somewhat ashamed of himself. “At least Rod and I did, but I was led into it by that skunk. After we three had spent most of the first lot we took out of the treasure, Rod proposed that he and I and Hiram rob old Hank of all that was left – take Hank’s share as well as our own.

“I fell in with the scheme, when Rod told me that Hiram was in it also, but I’ve found out since that this was a lie. Hiram wouldn’t do it. And I wouldn’t have gone into it with Rod except that he had me fozzled with strong drink. That cured me – I never touched another drop since. It was how I lost my leg.”

The story was rapidly approaching a dramatic climax, and seeing a quiet place beside the road. Bob drew the car in there and stopped it.

“That’s better,” commented Jolly Bill. “I can talk better when I’m not so rattled about. To make a long story short, I believed what that rat Rod told me – that he and I and Hiram, together, could steal the map of the new place where the treasure was hid, and take it from Hank. Hank had made a lot of money with his first share – he was getting to be fair rich, and we’d spent ours – that is Rod and I had, though I found out that Hiram had done almost as well as Hank had. He had some money put away for a rainy day.

“Well, one night we carried out the plans. It was dark and stormy and Rod and I were to meet at a certain place, get into Hank’s house on pretense of wanting to ask for more of our shares, and then we were to attack him and get the map. I wondered why Hiram wasn’t with us, but Rod said he’d meet us at Hank’s house.

“I found out since that Rod tried to get Hiram in on the wicked scheme, but Hiram wouldn’t come, and threatened to tell Hank. However, it was too late for that. Rod and I went at it alone, but Hank showed fight. I got a bullet in my leg and had to have it taken off. Rod ran and I haven’t seen him since. Hiram wasn’t in on the mean trick, as I realize now it was, and I was laid up!

“That ended the attempt to get more than our share away from Hank, and, not only that, but we had forfeited our right to any more of the treasure.”

“How was that?” asked Ned.

“Well, we agreed when the first division was made, and Hank had been made banker, so to speak, that if any one of us tried to trick, or over-reach, the other, he would lose his rights to any further share in the remainder of the gold. As we all signed a paper to this effect – signed it in blood, too, for we had our superstitions – as we’d all signed, that was all there was to it. Rod and I were out of it. The rest of the gold went to Hank and Hiram.”

“And Mr. Denby is dead,” remarked Bob.

“Yes, but he and Hiram remained friends to the last on account of what had happened – Hiram not going into the rotten trick. And in the course of events Hank left his share – and there was more than when he started with it – he left it all to Hiram. Not only that, but he left our two shares also – Rod’s and mine – as he had a right to do.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Harry.

“I got a letter from a lawyer here in town, telling me about that,” said Jolly Bill, now quite serious. “This lawyer – Judge Weston is his name – said Hank had left a will, and some instructions – and the instructions were for this lawyer to write to us after Hank’s death, telling how everything went to Hiram, under the rules we had all agreed to.

“So Hiram got the brass-bound box, in which Hank kept the map, showing where the treasure is still buried. For you must know, boys, that Hank, like the rest of us, was a bit afraid of banks. He kept most of the money hid and it’s hid yet. The map’s the only thing to tell where it is. Not even the lawyer knows, he wrote me.”

“And did he write the same news to Rodney Marbury?” asked Bob.

“I suppose he did – that was the agreement – the first one to die was to let the others know, writing to the last address he had. So I s’pose Rod knows how his trick didn’t do him any good, nor me neither. We were both bilked out of our shares, but we had a right to be. It served us good and proper.

“However, I made some money in another way – not much – but enough to exist on – and when I heard Hank was dead I came on to see my old messmate Hiram. And I got here just too late.”

“Yes,” agreed Bob, “some one got the treasure map and they may have the treasure by this time.”

“It’s likely,” agreed Jolly Bill with a sigh. “But it can’t be helped. But I think I know who robbed Hiram.”

“I guess we can make a pretty good stab at it,” said Bob. “If what Mr. Beegle thinks is true, it must be this same Rodney Marbury.”

“Correct, my lad. And you said he waylaid him on the way home from the lawyer’s office?” asked Bill.

“That’s what he thinks,” stated Bob. “I found him unconscious beside the road, but he then had the box.”

“Which he hasn’t now,” added Bill “Well, I s’pose it’s all up. Rod will get the treasure after all.”

“Maybe not,” spoke Bob quietly.

“What do you mean?” asked the wooden-legged man.

“I mean that he’ll be trailed,” said the lad. “The police of this and other towns will get after him.”

“A lot of good that will do!” laughed Harry. “The police – whoop!”

“Well, then, I’ll take a hand myself!” declared Bob.

“Now you’re talking!” cried Ned. “Detective Bob Dexter on the trail! Hurray!”

“Cut it out!” said his chum in a low voice. “There’s that hand organ grinder again!”

And, as he spoke the man with the monkey and wheezy music box came tramping along the road.

CHAPTER X
SAILOR’S KNOTS

Just why Bob Dexter didn’t want Ned to wax enthusiastic over the fact that Bob intended taking the trail after the thief who had robbed Hiram Beegle wasn’t quite clear. Perhaps it was Bob’s modesty over ever being praised for his detective work. Perhaps it was just natural caution in the presence of the strange Italian – for certainly he seemed of that nationality.

However it was, Ned desisted from his words of praise, and a silence fell over the group in the auto as the man with the organ and monkey shuffled along.

He had cast a quick glance at all in the machine, his glance lasting longest, perhaps, on the jolly face of Bill Hickey, for on that odd character’s shining countenance a smile was again visible. Bill seemed to have recovered his spirits after telling his story.

The organ man appeared inclined to stop and grind out a tune, hoping, perhaps, to charm some pennies from the pockets of those in the flivver, either by his music, of which the less said the better, or by the antics of his monkey, which was the usual small variety, attired in coat, trousers and a cap – a shameful degrading of a decent simian.

But Bob exclaimed:

“You needn’t play any music for us – we’re going to move along.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Jolly Bill. “I reckon I’ve spun about all of the yarn you need to hear.”

“No music – you no like?” questioned the Italian, with his shock of hair and his curling, matted beard.

“No like,” said Ned, with a laugh.

Once more the auto rolled along the quiet country road, leaving the organ grinder and his monkey staring after them.

“Looks like he was going to settle down here permanently,” remarked Harry.

“Yes,” agreed Bob. “This is the third time we’ve seen him the same day. They don’t often come to Cliffside.”

“Well, as I was saying,” remarked Ned, “if anybody can locate this Rod Marbury it can be done by our young detective friend Bob Dexter.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Bob with a smile. “But I’d like to have a go at it, if Mr. Beegle will let me.”

“Let you?” cried Jolly Bill Hickey, “why he’ll be glad to have you get his map back! He wants that treasure – any man would, and he can’t tell where old Hank Denby hid it until he looks at the map. Of course he’ll be glad to have you get it back for him.”

“I don’t know that I can do it – or even find this man he suspects,” stated Bob.

“Well, you can have a try at it, anyhow,” decided Harry. “And you did pretty well down at Beacon Beach.”

“There was a lot of luck in that,” admitted Bob.

“Well, maybe luck will break here for you, too,” put in Jolly Bill. “I hope so, for Hiram’s sake.”

“But look here,” spoke out Ned. “Mr. Beegle must have opened his brass-bound box and have looked at the map inside between the time he got home with it and the time it was taken from him. And by looking at the map he must know where the stuff is buried.”

“That’s so,” agreed Harry.

“Not so fast!” exclaimed Jolly Bill. “It isn’t so easy to look at a map and then find the place it refers to. We found that out when we went to the South Sea island. You’ve got to have the map right with you, and work your course along fathom by fathom. Hiram would need the map to find where Hank had hid anything. Hank wouldn’t hide it in any easy place, or a place you could find by one look at the map. And Hiram didn’t have much time to study it.

“No, what I think, is that Rod heard, through the letter he got from Judge Weston, that everything had gone to Hiram. This made him mad and he decided to do things his own way, like he did once before when this happened to me,” and Jolly Bill tapped his wooden leg. “So he got the best of Hiram before Hiram had a chance to study the map. Rod has it now and he’ll dig up that treasure as soon as he gets the chance.”

“Do you think it’s buried around here?” asked Ned eagerly.

“It’s likely to be somewhere around Cliffside,” admitted Bill. “Hank wasn’t much of a hand to go far away from home after our South Sea trip.”

“Then all we’ll have to do is to watch where any stranger begins digging operations,” was Ned’s opinion. “I say stranger, for we don’t any of us know this Rod Marbury.”

“I know him – to my sorrow!” remarked Jolly Bill. “But as for watching for a digger – gosh! any number of holes could be sunk, off in the woods – in the mountains – even at Storm Mountain – and no one in the village would ever know it – not even the police.”

“I guess that’s right,” agreed Ned. “We’ll have to leave it to Bob Dexter.”

“Well, Bob Dexter isn’t going to do anything about it right away,” declared the young detective himself. “I’ve got to get back and report to Uncle Joel. I’ve been away a long time as it is.”

“That’s right,” said his chums.

“Well, I’ll see you again some time,” remarked Jolly Bill, as they left him at the Mansion House – a hotel hardly living up to its name – but good enough for the purpose. “I’m going to stick around a while and see if I can help Hiram. Of course I feel a bit sore that I didn’t get a share in the big part of the treasure, but it served me right for letting Rod lead me astray in attacking Hank. I deserve all I’m getting, and I’m not complaining.”

He seemed quite humble and not a bit jolly now.

“But I’ll do all I can to help Hiram,” he went on, as he stumped into the hotel, attracting many curious glances, for he was as odd a character as had been seen in those parts in many a long day. “And if I can help you solve this mystery, my young detective, call on me,” he said to Bob.

“Thanks, I shall,” was the answer. “I don’t know that I can do anything, but I’m going to try, if my uncle will let me.”

All Cliffside was soon buzzing with the news of the attack on the lonely old man, and there were various rumors as to the size of the fortune taken from him. Of course there was some disappointment that there had been no murder – I mean disappointment from a strictly sensational standpoint, for no one wanted to see the harmless old man killed. But, all in all, there was plenty of excitement for a time.

The real story was known only to Bob, his two chums and Jolly Bill, and the lads had agreed to keep silent about it. Jolly Bill had no inducement to tell something that was not to his credit. And Ned and Harry wanted to give Bob a chance to exercise his detective abilities, in which they hoped to share.

As for Rod Marbury, he would have the greatest incentive in the world to remain in hiding, and Hiram was so ill and hazy as to what had happened that he would not be likely to tell the story of the buried and recovered treasure. Re-buried to be exact, for it had been hidden by Hank Denby and was still hidden, unless Rod Marbury had used the map to get the location of it and had removed it.

“Well, Bob,” remarked his uncle at home that evening, when they were talking the matter over, “of course I want you should make your way in life. I did hope you’d sort of succeed to my business, but I can see you’re not cut out for a hardware merchant I don’t altogether hold with this detective business, but I like to see a young man go in for what he likes best, other things being equal. Now you’re asking me to let you off from your regular work so you can solve this Storm Mountain mystery.”

“That’s what I’d like, Uncle Joel.”

“Well, then, I’ll agree to it with this understanding, that you don’t run into danger. I’m responsible for you – almost as much as if I was your father.”

“You have been a good father to me,” said Bob, feelingly.

“I’ve tried to be,” said Mr. Dexter, quietly. “So I want you to take care of yourself.”

“I will,” promised the lad. “Thanks, Uncle Joel.”

“I don’t reckon you’ll find out much,” went on the hardware man. “From what you tell me it’s as queer and complicated as some of the moving pictures we’ve had here in town. But they always work out some way, and maybe this will.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Bob, who had told his uncle the whole story. “Of course there are some points that seem pretty hazy – especially about this Rod Marbury – how he could be around, attack Hiram on the road and get in his cabin without being seen either time. And that trick of getting the key back in the locked room – that is a puzzler!”

“There must be some secret about the old log cabin,” ventured Mr. Dexter.

“A secret! I’ll say there is!” declared Bob. “But I’ll find it!”

Having arranged with his uncle to get time off from his work in the store, which work he had promised to do since there was no school for a time, Bob began to lay out some plans. Most of all he wanted a talk with Hiram Beegle, to clear up some points.

“I want to know more about this mysterious Rod Marbury,” said the lad to himself. “When Mr. Beegle gets better he can talk more about what happened just before he was stricken.”

The next day Bob went to see the log cabin hermit at the home of Tom Shan, but Mr. Beegle was still a bit weak and uncertain in his mind, and the physician forbade any one bothering him with vexing questions.

“Those two chiefs of police have been here,” said Tom to Bob, “but they didn’t find out much, and I guess they never will.”

“Well, I’ll be around again to-morrow,” said Bob, as he took his leave, followed by a friendly smile from Hiram Beegle who was slowly improving. He had been knocked out by some sort of gas, or else by something given him to drink, the doctor decided. But the effects were passing off.

On his way back from visiting the chief character in this new mystery that had engaged him, Bob took the road to Storm Mountain and passed near the log cabin. It was deserted and locked, for Chief Drayton still had the keys, though he promised to give them to Mr. Beegle as soon as the latter wanted to get back in his home.

“I wish you could talk,” murmured Bob to the silent logs. “You’d tell me how that key got inside the locked room. As soon as I can I’m going to have a look at that room more closely, and have a talk with Hiram. He’ll know whether there are any secret sliding panels in the walls, through which the key could have been tossed in as it could have been had there been a transom over the door.”

Bob then walked around to the chimney side. He wanted again to look at those marks in the soft ground – the marks that his chum had first taken for the prints of an elephant’s foot They were somewhat less plain now – those queer marks, but Bob could think of nothing more that they looked like than a sack of potatoes set down again and again because of its weight.

“It’s a queer case,” mused Bob as he turned away from the old log cabin. “A queer case – more so than that of the Golden Eagle or the wreck of the Sea Hawk. I don’t know how I’m going to make out on it.”

As he walked around to the front of the little dwelling, he saw, sitting on the low doorstep, the organ grinder. The Italian had leaned his wheezy instrument up against a tree, and the monkey was swinging from a low branch.

“Nobody home,” said Bob, thinking the fellow might have stopped to play, hoping, thereby, to earn some pennies.

“Nobody home,” murmured the other.

He held in his hand the long string that was attached to the collar of his monkey, and as Bob looked the fingers of the man began tying into the cord a number of sailors’ knots.

Idly, and seemingly unconsciously, the man made a square knot, he loosened that and threw a clove hitch – then a half hitch. Next he made a running bowline, all the while looking at the lad.

“Nobody home,” the Italian said, musingly. “Aw-right. I go – come, Jacko!”

And jerking on the string, which was a signal for the monkey to perch on top of the organ, the fellow shouldered his instrument and walked off toward the road.

“Sailors’ knot!” mused Bob to himself as he stood watching. “Sailors’ knots – I wonder – ”

But his wondering was interrupted by hearing footsteps at the rear of the log cabin.