The Secret of the Caves by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

washed-up treasure.
    Mr. Tuttle leaned over the counter. “You—You’re goin’ to camp in Honeycomb Caves!” he exclaimed incredulously.
    â€œWhy, yes,” Joe said.
    The storekeeper shook his head solemnly. “You’re new in these parts, aren’t you?”
    â€œFrom Bayport,” Frank offered. “This is the first time we’ve been down this way.”
    â€œI thought so,” returned the bewhiskered man with a great air of satisfaction, as though his judgment had been verified.
    â€œTell us,” Frank said patiently, “how much farther do we have to go to reach Honeycomb Caves?”
    â€œIt’s a matter of five miles by the road. Then you’ll have to walk a ways.”
    â€œIs there a place we can pitch our tent?” Chet asked.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œWe’d like to explore them,” Joe said.
    The old fellow gasped. “Explore ‘em! Lads, you’re crazy!”
    â€œIs it against the law?” Chet inquired.
    â€œNo, it ain’t. But it’s against common sense.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Biff.
    â€œIt just is,” the storekeeper retorted, as though that explained everything.
    â€œYou mean the caves are dangerous?” queried Frank, enjoying the conversation.
    â€œMaybe, 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.”
    â€œShooting!” Frank exclaimed.
    â€œGuns 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 pricked up his ears. He wondered whether either of these men was Cadmus QuilL The boy described the college assistant to the old fellow and asked if he had seen such a man.
    â€œNaw. 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 seashore 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.
    â€œI know what they call this place,” Chet said gravely.
    â€œDoes it have a name?” Biff asked.
    â€œSure. Fish Hook.”
    â€œFish Hook? Why?” Biff asked, neatly falling into Chet’s trap.
    â€œBecause 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”
    â€œOkay,” 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