Christmas Day
“I think we ought to make this outing an annual affair,” said Chet
Morton the next morning after the boys had wished one another “Merry
Christmas.”
“Why?”
“We get two Christmases out of it. It suits me fine.”
“If you expect to get any presents around here, you’re badly mistaken,”
sniffed Joe, putting on his shoes.
“I didn’t. If I had expected any I would have hung up my stocking. But
we’ll have a Christmas dinner, anyway. That’ll be the second Christmas
dinner this week.”
“If we hadn’t found those supplies, you’d be out of luck for your
Christmas dinner to-day. The chicken and the pudding and the Christmas
cake were all in those two boxes,” Frank said.
“Didn’t I know it? But everything is all right now.”
“Take a look out the window and see if Hanleigh is snooping around the
rocks,” advised Biff.
Chet sped to the window.
“A glorious day!” he reported. “A beautiful, sunshiny Christmas day. The
only cloud on the whole horizon is that there is no sign of Mr.
Hanleigh. The ice is clear and it looks as if we’ll have some splendid
ice-boating this afternoon. But Mr. Hanleigh is not ice-boating this
morning. There is snow on the hillside—but our dear friend Hanleigh is
not snow-shoeing. But let us not lose hope. He may yet emerge from his
hiding place and proceed forth to enjoy the keen Christmas air in the
vicinity of Cabin Island, that clear atmosphere that he doesn’t want us
to breathe.”
Chet’s rhapsody came to an abrupt halt when Joe hurled a wet towel that
caught him squarely on the back of the neck. Frank, who had been
appointed cook for the day, put a stop to hostilities by announcing
breakfast just then and the lads sat down to piping hot plates of ham
and eggs, accompanied by fragrant coffee.
The big surprise came when Frank, with a flourish, drew aside a curtain
that had been screening a mysterious table in one corner of the big
room. Here, the Hardy boys had put their presents to each other and to
their chums. There was a handsome pair of boxing gloves for Biff and a
glittering, nickel-plated flashlight for Chet. Frank had given his
brother a new watch-chain and Joe, in turn, had given Frank a pair of
cuff-links with his initials engraved thereon.
“Well,” said Chet, admiring the flashlight and switching it on and off
to see that it was in good working order, after the boys had exchanged
thanks for the gifts, “Biff and I thought we were putting something
across, too, but you got ahead of us.”
And, going into the kitchen, he emerged with some mysterious-looking
parcels which he promptly distributed. These were the presents Biff and
Chet had arranged to give the Hardy boys and to each other. Frank
received a pair of ski-boots and Joe the same. Biff’s enthusiasm over a
punching bag was long and loud, while Chet himself was delighted with a
little book of tickets to the best motion picture house in Bayport.
“I see where I won’t do much homework until these tickets are used up,”
he said, with a wink.
Their presents having been duly examined and admired, the lads donned
their outing clothes, with the exception of Frank. As cook, it was his
duty to stay and prepare the Christmas dinner, at the same time keeping
an eye on the rocks where the supplies had been hidden. The base of the
cliff was in plain view of the big cabin window so there was little
danger that the owner of the mysterious notebook would approach
unobserved.
“What if he should chance along while you’re all away?”
“We never thought of that,” said Biff, in dismay. “You couldn’t very
well handle him alone.”
“How about your rifle?” Joe suggested.
“The very thing! Even if you chaps go as far as the mainland, you will
be able to hear a rifle shot. I’ll fire one shot into the air and that
will be the signal to come back as quickly as you can. If he tries to
get away, you can easily head him off in the ice-boat.”
This arrangement seemed to preclude any possibility of the stranger’s
escape if he chanced to show up, so Joe, Chet and Biff trooped out. For
the morning, they had decided to stay close to the cabin, “so there
won’t be any risk of missing dinner,” as Chet explained, and amuse
themselves by fishing through the ice. So, with lines ready and hooks
baited with pieces of salt pork, they made their way down the slope and
out on the ice.
There they set to work with their hatchets and soon had three holes
chopped in the ice. They dropped in their lines and from then on it was
a game to see who would catch the first fish. Chet, of course, raised a
clamor every few minutes, claiming that he had a bite, but somehow the
fish always managed to get away.
“No wonder,” grumbled Biff. “You scare ’em away, with all that racket.
Try being quiet for a while and see how it works.”
To the astonishment of the others, Chet actually did manage to refrain
from noise for the space of five minutes and the plan evidently had good
results—but not for Chet. Joe suddenly gave his line a yank. A silvery
body flashed through the air and flopped wildly on the ice.
He had caught a good-sized fish and when it has been despatched, the
others returned to the ice-holes with renewed enthusiasm. Within a few
minutes, Biff was the fortunate one, and a second fish was laid to rest
on the ice beside the first. Chet endured the chaffing of the others,
who elaborately complimented him on his skill. A moment later, he gave a
yell of delight.
“I’ve got one! I’ve got one!”
He began to haul and tug at the line.
“A whopper!” gasped Chet. “I can hardly pull him in.”
The other boys watched his efforts, their eyes bulging. Chet was
struggling with all his might and although he was gradually drawing in
his line, there seemed to be a tremendous weight on the end of it.
“Must be a whale!” grunted Chet. “Ah—here he comes!”
He drew in his prize. It rose above the surface of the water. Chet
stared at it in disgust.
The “fish” was nothing more than a very battered pail. Chet’s hook had
somehow caught the handle. Full of water and mud, the pail had almost
broken the stout line by its weight.
Joe and Biff whooped with laughter. Joe gave the pail a kick that sent
it back into the water again.
“Some fish!” yelled Joe.
“It wasn’t a whale. It was a pail!”
Chet glared at his companions.
“I’ll show you!” he said.
He baited his hook and again cast in his line. Immediately there was a
lively wrench. Chet gave the line a twitch, and this time he did catch a
fish. The only drawback to his enjoyment lay in the fact that it was
only about four, inches long.
“A sardine!” grinned Joe.
However, Chet placed his capture beside the other fish, just as proudly
as though it were a ten-pounder.
“It isn’t any fault that I caught it before it had time to grow a little
more. It might just as easily have been a big one,” he said.
The fishing became cold sport after a while, inasmuch as the boys were
obliged to stay in the one place and could not move around enough to get
exercise. They soon began to feel the cold and before long began to
await the sound of the dinner bell. This, as Frank had warned them,
would be achieved by banging the poker against a tin pan.
“Well, if our supplies are stolen again, we can live on fish,” remarked
Joe cheerfully.
“Not if we depend on Chet to catch them for us,” said Biff. “I’m sure we
wouldn’t make much of a meal out of that whale he caught. A little bit
tough for my taste.”
Chet was just thinking up a retort in kind when they heard the welcome
clatter of the tin pan. With one accord, they hauled in their lines,
seized the fish they had caught, and raced madly back to the shore,
scrambled headlong up the slope and breathlessly plunged into the cabin.
“What’s the matter?” asked Frank, as they made their hurried entry.
“Somebody chasing you?”
“Hunger is chasing us!” declared Chet.
“Dinner is ready. Wash up and hop to it.”
They needed no second invitation. Frank opened the oven door and a
delicious odor of browned chicken permeated the cabin. The Christmas
pudding, which Mrs. Hardy had prepared before the boys left Bayport, was
already steaming, and the table was loaded high with good things,
pickles, potatoes, “and all the trimmings.”
The boys later vowed that of all the Christmas dinners they had ever
eaten, with all due respect to the dinners they had sat down to at home,
the one that would remain longest in their memories would be the
Christmas feast they devoured during their outing on Cabin Island.
The afternoon they spent quietly, trying out their skis on the sloping
hillsides on the eastern side of the island. This exhilarating sport
made the hours pass quickly, and when the winter twilight fell the boys
returned to the cabin, weary and happy.
“The best Christmas ever!” they voted it.
“Well,” said Frank, as they sat about the fireplace that evening, “the
man who lost the notebook didn’t show up to-day.”
“He’ll be back,” said Joe.
“And we’ll be ready for him.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t missed it yet,” suggested Biff.
“Perhaps not. What I’m afraid of,” Frank said, “is that he won’t
consider it important enough to come back for.”
“Important! Why, the cipher is in it!” exclaimed Joe.
“Yes, but he knows the cipher by heart, no doubt. And the very fact that
the message is in cipher will protect him. He knows that if we do chance
to find the notebook, it will be a hundred chances to one that we’ll
never be able to find out what it means. He may not worry about losing
the notebook after all.”
The boys were thoughtful.
“We may never catch him, then?”
“I hope so,” said Frank. “But we can’t count on it too strongly.”
“We’ll get him,” Joe declared. “That message had something to do with
Cabin Island. The man will be back here anyway, notebook or no notebook,
I’m dead sure.”