The Shore Road Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

prize critters!”
    Frank’s eyes blazed. “This isn’t an authorized cattle crossing—you should know better than to drive your herd across a major road without giving some kind of warning!”
    Seeing no point in futher heated words, Frank turned from the irate farmer and the boys rode off.
    On the way home they discussed their unsuccessful pursuit of Slagel. “At least,” said Frank, “we know where he’s staying. Maybe next time we’ll have better luck.”
    Back home for lunch, the boys spoke to their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the farmer.
    â€œA farm just south of Pembroke Road?” their aunt asked. “Laura, wouldn’t that be George Birnham?”
    Yes,” said Mrs. Hardy. “He has lived here a number of years.”
    â€œDo you know anything else about him?” Frank said.
    â€œAn odd man,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “I believe his grandfather was given the land by a member of the Dodd family, though Birnham has never done very well with it. I gave him an order over the phone once. He sold me some half-rotten tomatoes, and I told him a thing or two!”
    Out of curiosity Joe consulted the new telephone directory. “Frank! Birnham’s name is in here—which means he lied about having no phone! Why?” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “He’s blocked us off two times. What if it wasn’t coincidence—that there’s some tie-in between him and Slagel?”
    â€œLet’s pay a visit to his farm tonight,” Frank answered. “If Biff will team up with us, we can still watch Route 7 too. Have you the same hunch about Slagel’s paint that I do?”
    â€œIf you mean it’s for repainting stolen cars—yes,” Joe replied. “And that does make the hideout north of here.”
    Suddenly Frank remembered the flecks of paint they had found near the car tracks in the woods. He phoned Chief Collig to learn the test results. The police were convinced they were from the stolen car and the tire prints also. “My men have rechecked the area where you boys found the paint chips but couldn’t come up with anything more.”
    â€œHow about the collision noises, Chief?”
    â€œThe police have heard them too—once when a patrol was on the tail of a stolen car. But that’s not all. Do you know who the first victim of the auto thefts was?”
    Frank tried to recall the papers two weeks back. “Wasn’t it a farmer somewhere out on Shore—”
    â€œA farmer named George Birnham!”
    â€œBirnham!” Frank exclaimed. In view of the boys’ latest suspicions, this seemed a strange twist!
    That afternoon Frank and Joe look the Pilgrim clue with them and combed another patch of woods in the vicinity of Willow River.
    It was three o’clock when they came upon a granite rock formation near a wooded slope. Nearby were several black willow trees.
    â€œIt looks as if somebody else has been sleuthing around here,” Frank said. He pointed to traces of footprints and digging. “These were all made by one person.”
    The stone looked as if it had been there a long time. But it was too small to have afforded shelter for a whole family even three hundred years ago. Joe looked without success for traces of a gold vein.
    â€œLet’s take a look at Birnham’s farm by daylight,” Frank suggested, and they rode off.
    After parking at some distance, the two cautiously made their way along the dirt road turning off to the farm. The road was just beyond the rise at which they had lost sight of Slagel’s car that morning. At a distance they could see Birnham working in a field. But there was no sign of Slagel’s car. The brothers returned to their motorcycles.
    Frank, gazing ahead, suddenly cried out. Above the tips of a thick birch forest a couple of miles ahead, a circular formation of black smoke could be seen rising. “That looks like