Terror at High Tide by Franklin W. Dixon

climbed back into the Jeep, then glanced around at the deserted field. “It’s kind of creepy out here, too. There’s no one else around.”
    â€œGive a shout if you need us,” Joe said. “We’ll be right inside.”
    Frank, Joe, and Callie strolled around the pond and up to the front door of the mill. Inside, the light was dim, and it took a moment for Frank’s eyes to adjust. Narrow rays of sunlight slanted across the rustic wooden interior, highlighting a young man in a blue T-shirt and a Boston Red Sox cap worn backward. The front of his shirt was covered with yellow dust.
    â€œHi,” he said cheerfully. “My name’s Bob. I’m the guide here. Just let me know if you’d like a demonstration.” He pointed to a sack filled with corn kernels.
    Frank studied the grindstones. They were circular, about five feet in diameter, and the top stone was attached to a long wooden shaft powered by the sails at the top of the building. A chute led from the bottom stone to a hopper full of corn meal in the cellar below.
    â€œI’d like a demonstration,” Callie said. “And I’d also like to get an idea of the mill’s history. I’m writing up a story for the paper.”
    â€œOkay,” Bob said, scooping up some corn in a tin can. “Then let’s begin our lesson.”
    â€œAre we the only ones in here?” Joe asked.“Did anyone else come or go within the last ten minutes?”
    â€œNot a soul,” Bob said. “It’s been a quiet day.”
    Frank glanced at Joe. “Let’s check out the view upstairs,” he suggested, glancing at a flight of stairs winding around the shaft. “You never know what we’ll find.”
    Bob began pouring corn into a chute that funneled it onto the bottom stone. Using a lever, he lowered the top stone until it ground against the bottom stone. The corn made a crunching sound as the stones ground it.
    While Callie listened to Bob, Frank led Joe up the steep, rickety stairway. As they approached the second floor, there was a sudden crack. The step was breaking.
    â€œJoe!” Frank shouted as he fell. He grabbed desperately for something to hold. Fifteen feet below him, the heavy machinery was working away, ready to crush whatever—or whoever—came between the heavy grindstones.

8 Riptide
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    Frank grabbed the broken stair with his left hand. “Joe, help me,” he called. “I’m going to fall.”
    As Frank dangled over the grindstones below, Joe grabbed Frank’s left forearm, using all his strength to keep his brother from falling.
    â€œI need help,” Joe grunted, his face red. His muscular arms shook with the weight of Frank’s body, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Joe shouted for Bob, but the loud noise of the grindstones drowned out his voice.
    With Joe holding his left arm, Frank was able to swing his right hand up through the opening and reach for the side of the stair. “I think I can make it,” he gasped. “Pull as hard as you can.”
    Joe managed to haul Frank up another two inches. “I’ve got it,” Frank said as he clutched Joe’s arm with his right hand. With Joe’s support, Frank was finally able to scramble up through the broken stair.
    â€œThat was close,” Joe said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
    â€œToo close,” Frank said. “I thought I was going to become a corn muffin.”
    â€œI’m surprised Bob didn’t notice. I guess the machinery’s too loud. Come on,” Joe said. “Let’s check out the stair. Something tells me this isn’t a case of dry rot.”
    The Hardys inspected the stair, running their fingers over the old wood. “Look at this, Frank,” Joe said, examining the righthand side.
    â€œWow,” Frank said as Joe pointed out rough jagged marks in the stair close to the wall. Tiny specks of