The Mystery of Cabin Island

Driven by a stiff breeze from the west, a trim little iceboat went scudding over the frozen surface of Barmet Bay. The winter air was cold and clear, the hills rising from the shores were blanketed in snow, and although a patch of black water away off toward the east gave evidence that King Frost had been balked at the Atlantic, the bay itself was a gleaming sheet of ice.

The long cold snap had caused rejoicing in the hearts of the young folk of Bayport. Although the ice in mid-bay was not solid, along the shore and in the numerous coves of the indented bay it was frozen to a safe depth. The dark figures of skaters sped like swallows in flight on the miniature natural rinks close to shore, and farther out the speeding iceboats with their billowing sails resembled huge sea gulls as they raced before the wind.

Frank Hardy, a dark, handsome boy of sixteen, was at the tiller of the craft that represented several weeks’ hard work on the part of himself and his brother Joe. Although it was homemade, the iceboat was staunch and stoutly built and as it sped over the gleaming surface the boys were justifiably proud of their handiwork.

“This is great!” shouted Frank. “Iceboating beats motorboating all to pieces.”

Joe, a fair, curly-haired youngster who was a year Frank’s junior, was sitting forward with their chum, Chet Morton.

“I’ll say it is!” he agreed. “I don’t think there’s a faster boat on the bay.”

Although the man had his back turned to them, they had little doubt but that he was Hanleigh. Frank and Joe nudged one another in excitement.

Hanleigh was quite unconscious that he was being watched. He stood before the fireplace, a long, slender stick in his hand. He stepped forward, measured a section of the stone chimney, stepped back and regarded the measured part, got down on his hands and knees and measured the base. Once in a while he shook his head in disgust and muttered something that the boys could not overhear.

The boys were puzzled. Why should Hanleigh be measuring the fireplace in this abandoned cabin?

In their eagerness, they forgot caution and gradually crowded closer and closer together until all four faces were pressed full against the windowpane. Had Hanleigh chanced to turn their way he would have seen them in a moment.

However, the man seemed too greatly occupied. He was concerned just then with the fireplace and evidently he considered himself quite safe from observation. Back and forth he went, examining the interior and exterior of the fireplace and the chimney, measuring it from every possible angle, even counting the number of stones. He took an envelope from his pocket and jotted down figures on the back of it.

The boys were just snuggling down to sleep when a terrifying sound rose above the clamor of the wind.

“Owoooooo!”

It was like the wail of some anguished spirit.

With one accord, the boys felt their hair rising upon their scalps. No one said a word. The dreadful wail died away, then broke out again.

“Owoooooo!”

Then came Chet’s voice, from between chattering teeth.

“Wh⁠—wh⁠—what was that?”

“Some of you chaps playing a joke on us?” demanded Frank suspiciously.

“N‑not m‑me,” declared Chet.

“Me neither,” said Joe.

“It wasn’t me,” Biff clamored.

Just then the sound broke out afresh.

“Owoooooo!”

It was a long-drawn-out, moaning sound that rose in volume to a veritable shriek, indescribably terrifying.

“Ghosts!” clamored Chet.

“There aren’t any such things!” snorted Joe. “It must be the wind.”

“You n‑never heard the w‑wind make a n‑noise like that before, d‑did you?” stammered Chet.

The other boys were forced to admit that they never had. The sound had a quality that was almost human. Besides, they had been listening to the howling of the wind all evening and at no time had it approached that mournful wail they had just heard.

“Maybe somebody is lost out in the snow and crying for help,” suggested Biff.

“How could anybody get out to this island on a night like this?”

“Wait till we hear it again.”

They listened. For a long time they did not hear the mysterious sound. Then, with a suddenness that made them all jump convulsively, the wailing was resumed.

“Owoooooo!”

“He was quite well. He let us have the cabin for our outing.”

“Yes, that’s just like Mr. Jefferson. Got a heart of gold, specially where boys is concerned. But queer⁠—mighty queer in some ways,” said Amos Grice, again wagging his head. “Do you know”⁠—and he leaned forward very confidentially⁠—“I really think he married Mary Bender because of her postage stamp collection.”

This amazing announcement left the Hardy boys rather at a loss for words.

“He married his wife because of her postage stamp collection!” exclaimed Joe.

“That’s what I said. You’ve heard of the Bender stamp collection, haven’t you?” he demanded.

The boys shook their heads.

“Well, I ain’t a stamp collector and I’ve heard of it. The Bender collection is supposed to be one of the greatest collections of postage stamps in the world. Why, I’ve heard tell that it’s worth thousands and thousands of dollars.”

“And Mrs. Jefferson owned it?”

“Yep. Her name was Mary Bender then, and she inherited it from her father. I got parts of the story from people who knew Mr. Jefferson well. It seems he has always been a collector of antiques and old coins and stamps and things, but one thing he had set his heart on was the Bender stamp collection. But he couldn’t buy it. Either Mr. Bender wouldn’t sell or Elroy Jefferson couldn’t raise the money⁠—but somehow he could never buy them stamps he had set his heart on.”

“So he married Mary Bender?”

“Well, now⁠—maybe he didn’t marry her entirely on account of the stamps. You see, he used to call at the Bender house quite often, trying to get Mr. Bender to sell the stamps, so in that way he met Mary Bender.