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

"He's got some nerve," Chet said indignantly, "criticizing Uncle Jim! And why was he looking in our window, anyway?"

"I don't know," Frank said, "but he certainly seems curious about us."

At that moment Uncle Jim, wearing a fresh white smock, came over and greeted the boys cheerfully. He immediately led them in the direction of the Davenport mansion.

"I'm heading for my watercolor class," he explained, "but you sleuths can have a private conference about our mystery with Mr. Davenport."

The instructor led them onto the porch, through the open front door, and pointed down the wood-paneled hallway to a large double door at the end.

"That's Mr. Davenport's study, where he's expecting you. We'll get together later!"

After Chet's uncle had left, they walked quietly down the hall to the study. Frank knocked. A few seconds later a voice from within said, "Come along."

The boys entered, closed the doors, and found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with heavily draped windows. Bookshelves lined one wall behind a cluttered mahogany desk. The adjacent wall contained a blackboard.

As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Joe gave Frank a nudge. "Look there!" he whispered.

Standing on a hassock was a small, gray-haired man in a white summer suit. He held a long pointer in one hand and was looking down at a fort structure of toy logs set up on the floor.

"Never! Never!" exclaimed the man as he collapsed the fort with a swish of the stick.

The trio watched, mouths agape. The man looked up quickly and said, "Hello, boys."

"Mr. Davenport?" Chet said, nonplused.

"I am. And you are James Kenyon's nephew Chester, I believe, and the two Hardy boys! Much honored!" The man jumped down and shook each boy's hand, bowing slightly. He spoke in a pleasant Southern drawl, but his twinkling blue eyes revealed a lively personality.

"Have a seat," Mr. Davenport said.

"We appreciate your invitation to Millwood," Frank said as they settled in comfortable chairs.

"Poor strategy," the art patron muttered. He threw open the draperies and paced the room.

"Pardon, sir?" Joe hesitated.

"Vicksburg, of course," Mr. Davenport answered, frowning at the scattered toy logs. "Yesterday was my annual Vicksburg Day."

"Have you many military-er-holidays in the year, Mr. Davenport?" asked Chet.

"Fifty-seven, not a one more!" he replied. "Used to have fifty-six till I admitted Bunker Hill this year. Sad days, many of 'em, but-"

Mr. Davenport paused. Suddenly he rushed over to the toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!

Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. "Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!" Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.

Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. "Now, what were you saying?"

Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.