"Dixon, Franklin W - Hardy Boys 044 - The Haunted Fort (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dixon Franklin W)

Chet wanted to go with his friends, but finally decided to work on his painting. The trio were about to separate when they saw Ronnie Rush setting up his easel near the main path.

At once the Bayporters hurried over. Joe asked bluntly, "Ronnie, we're missing a photostat of an old map. Have you seen it around?"

The student bit his lip. "Map? Why ask me? If I had, it'd be my business anyway."

"This one happens to be our business," Joe retorted. "You seem to be pretty good at spying. Maybe you saw the person who knocked me out, broke into our luggage, and stole the map."

Ronnie's face reddened, but he merely blustered, "I-I didn't see anybody. What's so special about an old map?"

"It's of Fort Senandaga," Joe said.

Ronnie gave a perceptible start, but at once took up his palette and brush. "Stop bothering me. I've got to finish my picture."

"Your prize-winning one?" Chet asked airily.

"A lot you know about art, fatso!" Ronnie muttered.

The three boys turned away. "I'll show him," Chet vowed.

Joe grinned. "The brush is mightier than the sword!"

"Anyhow," Frank said, "we got a rise out of Ronnie about the map, though we still can't be sure he took it."

"Yes," Joe said, "but he sure didn't like our questions."

The Hardys got directions to Turtle Island from Uncle Jim, and permission to use his own canoe, then hurried to the boathouse. They lifted the handsome red wooden craft from its berth into the water. Joe settled himself in the bow, and Frank in the stern, then they paddled off.

Bright white sails were visible downlake as they glided across the sun-speckled water. Here and there a motorboat sped along. The canoe traced a shimmering line over the surface as Frank steered toward a group of small islands a mile out.

"There's Turtle Island," Joe said presently, spotting a wooded hump of land straight ahead where a cabin of stone and log was partially visible.

Coasting between two large, jutting rocks, Frank steered the canoe onto a sandy strip. Nearby lay a weatherbeaten rowboat. Joe jumped out and pulled in their craft. Suddenly they heard a ferocious barking, then a flurry in the bushes, and a huge German shepherd dog appeared.

"Look out!" Frank cried.

The dog bared his teeth threateningly. Growling, he crouched as if to spring. The Hardys darted backward.

"Basker!" shouted a deep voice. "Hold, boy!"

The dog subsided instantly as a tall, sunburned man in a brown tweed suit emerged from the brush. Frank and Joe relaxed as he stroked the panting animal. The tall man peered at them beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted them in a British accent.

"Hello there!" he said cordially. "Terribly sorry about Basker-he's not used to seeing many people out here." He extended his hand. "Lloyd Everett's my name."

The boys introduced themselves, thinking Everett unusually well-dressed for a hermit. They told him why they had come. He agreed to let the Hardys inspect his Prisoner-Painter picture and led them toward the cabin.

"Dare say you chaps have had wind of that French gold-chain legend," he remarked. "I don't take any stock in it myself-it's false, like most of the past French claims about Fort Royal."

"Fort Royal?" Joe repeated.