"Why have they got it hanging in mid-air?" he wondered.

"For the effect, I guess," Frank replied. He looked about for a salesclerk. Meantime, Joe tried to lift the wheel from its supporting hooks.

A resounding crack made Frank whirl about, just in time to see the spinning wheel fall to pieces over Joe's head. They landed on the floor with a clatter.

"Leapin' frogs!" Frank exclaimed. "How'd that happen?"

"I don't know," Joe said. "I only touched it."

The noise brought a woman running from the back of the shop. She was tall, with dark eyes and black hair which was pulled back into a knot. "Oh, what did you do!" she cried with a p.r.o.nounced French accent.

"Nothing!" Joe protested. "The old wheel just came apart like matchsticks."

"We wanted to buy it," Frank said. "It must not have been very well made."

"That piece was valuable!" the woman declared indignantly. "It was not for sale." She wrung her hands.

"It was for show only-to set off our beautiful antique display."

Joe was embarra.s.sed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Maybe we can put it back together again." He picked up the large wheel and the spindle, still intact.

"Non!" The woman's eyes flashed. "You do not get away so easily. I am the manageress here. You will have to pay for this wheel."

Joe groaned. "Why didn't I keep my hands off it!"

"You will pay!" the woman repeated. She hastened into the back of the shop and returned seconds later with a tall, burly, well-muscled man.

"Marcel," she said, "you will know how to handle this."

"These the kids?" he growled.

"Yes," the woman replied. "They refuse to make good for this spinning wheel which they have so carelessly broken."

Joe opened his mouth to object, but Frank nudged him to silence. The muscular man advanced on them threateningly. In a low voice he rumbled, "I advise you to give us the money and be on your way!"

CHAPTER VIII.

The Old Marts Warning FRANK, although angry, wished to avoid a fight. He and Joe were on a sleuthing mission-this must come first. "How much do we owe you?" Frank asked the belligerent man. At the answer, Frank shook his head. "We don't have enough money, but I'll leave my watch for security."

Marcel sniffed. "Let's see it."

Frank slipped off the handsome stainless-steel timepiece which he had received the Christmas before.

"It's a good Swiss make," he said.

As Marcel examined the watch, Joe took twenty dollars from his pocket. "How about two sawbucks and the watch?" he asked. "That should be enough for a broken old spinning wheel."

Marcel glanced at the woman and she gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Okay," he said. "But don't come around here again breakin' up our antiques."

"We'll be back," Frank said, "with the thirty dollars to redeem my watch."

The shop manageress grudgingly produced a cardboard carton into which Frank and Joe placed the spinning-wheel parts. Then they put the box in the trunk of their car.

As Frank drove off, he said, "Something phony going on here. That spinning wheel was only slapped together."

"Looks like the whole shop might have been set up in an awful hurry," Joe remarked. "I'll bet most of the other stuff is junky too."

"I wonder how Aunt Gertrude's going to like her antique," Frank said with an ear-to-ear grin.

"I hate to think!" Joe said wryly, taking a road map from the glove compartment.

After studying it for a moment, he announced, "We're not far from Rockaway now. Boy! It's really a small speck on the map!"

Frank laughed. "I hope we don't miss the place."

Presently he drove down a long hill, and the Hardys found themselves in Rockaway. It was nothing more than a small crossroads village on the sh.o.r.e adjacent to a fishing pier. The brothers soon came to the campsite on the beach and parked. They spotted Biff and Chet sunning themselves before their tent. As the Hardys parked on the shoulder of the road, their friends hurried over.

Frank and Joe got out and looked at Chet's damaged jalopy.

"Wow! That's a bad dent!" Joe said. "Cadmus Quill didn't pull any punches."

"You can say that again!" Biff retorted.

"I think he's got it in for all of us!"

"Have you looked for him around here?" Frank asked.

"Look for yourself," Chet replied with a sweep of his hand. "There's nothing but a couple of stores and a few shacks."

True, Rockaway could hardly be called a town. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque and redolent of fish. A weather-beaten frame building stood across the street. Above the door was a large sign: TUTTLE'S GENERAL STORE.

"Let's stock up on grub," Frank said. He and Joe took rucksacks from their car and the four boys headed for the store.

A venerable man with whiskers was seated behind a counter. He was intently scrutinizing a newspaper.

The old gentleman put aside the newspaper and regarded them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity.

"You're Mr. Tuttle?" Frank ventured.

"Yup. What can I do for you?"

"We'd like to know how far it is to Honeycomb Caves."

The man's eyes widened. "Honeycomb Caves!" he repeated in a high, cracked voice. "You lads going to pa.s.s by there?"

Chet spoke up. "No, we're going to camp in the caves and do some beachcombing." He told of his metal detector and how they hoped to locate some washed-up treasure.

Mr. Tuttle leaned over the counter. "You-You're goin' to camp in Honeycomb Caves!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Why, yes," Joe said.

The storekeeper shook his head solemnly. "You're new in these parts, aren't you?"

"From Bayport," Frank offered. "This is the first time we've been down this way."

"I thought so," returned the bewhiskered man with a great air of satisfaction, as though his judgment had been verified.

"Tell us," Frank said patiently, "how much farther do we have to go to reach Honeycomb Caves?"

"It's a matter of five miles by the road. Then you'll have to walk a ways."

"Is there a place we can pitch our tent?" Chet asked.

"Oh, yes. A fisherman lives nearby-name of John Donachie. He might allow you to camp near his cottage. But if I was you I wouldn't do no campin' thereabouts. That is," Mr. Tuttle added, "unless you stay away from the caves."

"We'd like to explore them," Joe said.

The old fellow gasped. "Explore 'em! Lads, you're crazy!"

"Is it against the law?" Chet inquired.

"No, it ain't. But it's against common sense."

"Why?" asked Biff.

"It just is," the storekeeper retorted, as though that explained everything.

"You mean the caves are dangerous?" queried Frank, enjoying the conversation.

"Maybe, maybe," returned their informant mysteriously. "If you take my advice, you'll stay away from 'em."

Joe rested his elbows on the counter. "Can't you at least tell us the reason?"

Mr. Tuttle seemed to relish the boys' attention. "Well," he went on, "some mighty queer things been happenin' down there lately. A fisherman I know was scared near to death. There's been some peculiar lights around the caves and shootin' too."

"Shooting!" Frank exclaimed.

"Guns goin' off!" the storekeeper said emphatically, as if they had failed to understand him. "Two men already tried to find out what was goin' on there and got shot at."

Frank p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. He wondered whether either of these men was Cadmus Quill. The boy described the college a.s.sistant to the old fellow and asked if he had seen such a man.

"Naw. These were local citizens. But they won't go back to those caves again, I'll tell you."

Still mumbling his disapproval, Mr. Tuttle nonetheless supplied the boys with the provisions they needed.

These were packed into the rucksacks, which the boys slung over their shoulders.

They returned to the campsite and ate lunch. Then they took down the tent, stowed it into Chet's car, and set off in two vehicles, following the directions the storekeeper had given them.

They retraced their route over the highway, then turned to the right down a steep rutted lane that ended on the open seash.o.r.e near the fisherman's cottage.

The small house was built at the base of the hill two hundred yards from where the beach ended abruptly against towering cliffs. The waves battered against the sheer wall of rock. The quartet could make out a winding path leading up the hill directly in back of the cottage.

"I know what they call this place," Chet said gravely.

"Does it have a name?" Biff asked.

"Sure. Fish Hook."

"Fish Hook? Why?" Biff asked, neatly falling into Chet's trap.

"Because it's at the end of the line." Chet guffawed and slapped Biff on the back.

Biff groaned. "You really hooked me on that one, pal."

"Okay," said Joe. "Let's cut the comedy and see if we can park here."

The boys approached the door of the cottage and knocked. It was opened by a stocky, leather-faced man of middle age. He had a look of surprise on his good-natured countenance.

"Mr. John Donachie?" Frank asked.

"Correct. What can I do for you boys?" he inquired.

"May we leave our cars here for a while?" Frank asked.

"Sure. For an hour or so?"

"Perhaps for a few days," Frank replied.

The fisherman's expression changed instantly to one of concern. "You're not goin' over to the caves are you?"

When Frank said Yes, the man shook his head gravely. "You'd best be goin' back home," he warned.

"There's strange doin's in the caves these days. It's no place for boys like you."

The fisherman was joined by bis plump, rosy-faced wife, who repeated the admonition.

Frank felt his spine tingle. His hunch persisted that Cadmus Quill might be mixed up in the mysterious occurrences at Honeycomb Caves.

"What's been going on there?" Frank pressed.