Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery or, The Secret of the Log Cabin. Baker Willard F.

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      “Ten dollars was too much,” observed Bob, looking at his watch, and trying to decide if he could make the baseball park in time to see the end of the big game. He wanted to do the Samaritan act, also, in looking after this stranger, for he did not think it either kind or wise to let him go off by himself on the five mile tramp.

      “It was about eight dollars too much,” said the old man. “I would be willing to pay two, but not ten. Well, I can walk it.”

      “No,” said Bob, coming to a sudden decision, “I’ll take you. I have a car and I’ve got nothing important to do now.” He had a somewhat selfish motive in making this offer – he wanted to find out more about Hiram Beegle and about Rod Marbury. He wanted to know what valuables the box contained, and why the attack had been made.

      “Well, it’s mighty decent of you to want to give me a lift,” said Mr. Beegle. “I take it right kind of you. But if you do take me to my cabin I want to pay you. I’ll give you two dollars.”

      “I don’t want your money,” laughed Bob.

      “Then I won’t ride with you!” The old man was very firm about this. “Hiram Beegle can pay his way – there are a few shots left in the locker yet, and if things go right I’ll be rich some day,” and he shook the brass-bound box, “I’ll pay you two dollars or I’ll walk!” he concluded with a shake of his grizzled head.

      “Oh, well, have it your own way,” chuckled the lad. “I’m in neither the taxi nor jitney business, but I’ll take your money, though it won’t take that much gasolene or oil to put you in Storm Mountain. Where in the town do you live?”

      “I don’t live in the town, exactly,” said the old man. “I live all alone in a log cabin up on the side of the mountain. It’s a fairly good road there, or I wouldn’t let you take your car up it.”

      “A flivver can go anywhere!” said Bob.

      “Yes, I reckon they can. Well, I’m much obliged to you – both for coming along and scaring away Rod Marbury after he knocked me out, and for giving me a lift.”

      “I’m not sure I scared away any one,” said Bob. “I didn’t see any one at all. I was coming along the road and saw you stretched out.”

      “Yes, I was stretched out, all right,” chuckled Mr. Beegle, who seemed to have quite recovered now, except for the lump on the back of his head. “And I didn’t exactly see Rod myself. But I’d be willing to wager a marlin spike to a rope’s end that he had a hand in it.”

      Mr. Beegle headed for Bob’s machine, the engine of which was still running, but before starting off with the old man the young detective bethought him that he had better make a few inquiries.

      “Look here, Mr. Beegle,” said the lad frankly, “I’m very glad to be able to help you and give you a lift, but I must know that this is all straight. I don’t want to find out afterward that I’ve been taking part in a crime.”

      “A crime, what do you mean?” the old man seemed indignant.

      “I mean there’s been violence done to you. You carry something you intimate is valuable,” and Bob nodded toward the box. “You say some one tried to get it away from you. Now has there been a robbery – is that part of the spoil and is there a fight over the division of it? I have a right to know before I take you to Storm Mountain.”

      Mr. Beegle seemed greatly surprised and then a smile came over his grizzled face.

      “Young man, you’re right!” he exclaimed. “You have a right to know certain things. But I’ll tell you at once there has been no robbery. I came into possession of this box in a legal way, though some one would be glad to get it away from me. I inherited this. Here, I’ll prove it to you. Do you know Judge Weston?”

      “The lawyer? Of course I do!” exclaimed Bob.

      “Then stop at his office on the way to my cabin. Judge Weston will tell you how I came by this box. I’ll not say another word until you talk to Judge Weston.”

      Bob felt a trifle mean at seeming to doubt the old man’s word, but he felt he had a right to be assured that everything was all right. So, accordingly, he drove to the office of the lawyer, who had once been a county judge, the title still clinging to him as such titles will.

      “Hello, Mr. Beegle, back again!” greeted the lawyer, as Bob and his new friend entered. “Wasn’t everything in the box all right?”

      “Why, yes, Judge, I think so,” was the answer. “I only took a casual look inside, but all the papers seem to be there. But I ran into a little trouble after leaving your office,” and he told of the assault on him. “Then this young feller comes along,” resumed Hiram Beegle, “and offers to take me home. But he wants to be sure I didn’t steal this box,” and Mr. Beegle chuckled.

      “No, I can testify to that,” said Judge Weston with a smile. “You came into possession of it rightfully and legally. I can see Bob’s point though, and it is well taken, you being a stranger to him.

      “But it’s all right, Bob. I handed this box to Mr. Beegle about two hours ago. He inherited it under the will of Hank Denby, a client of mine who died in Fayetteville about a month ago. I have been settling up the Denby estate – what there was of it – and this box comes to Mr. Beegle. I just turned it over to him.”

      “And Rod Marbury didn’t have a share in it – did he?” asked the old man.

      “He was not mentioned in Mr. Denby’s will,” was the lawyer’s answer. “In fact, I know nothing of this Rod Marbury except what you have told me, Mr. Beegle. And you told me in confidence so I cannot reveal that.”

      “Oh, I don’t want to know any more!” broke in Bob. “I just wanted to know, after I heard there was a fight over the possession of this box, that Mr. Beegle had a right to it. Now I’ll take him home.”

      “That’s very kind of you, Bob,” said the former judge. “You have my word that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle’s legal possession of that box is concerned.”

      “Well, are you satisfied?” asked the old man.

      “Perfectly,” answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it later.

      “Then let’s pull up our mud hook,” went on Mr. Beegle. “It’s getting late and I’d like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to you, Judge.”

      “Don’t mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned.”

      As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball game.

      “Who won?” he called to Fred Merton.

      “We did, eight to six!”

      “Wow! Good enough!”

      The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr. Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to his injured head.

      “Does it hurt much?” asked Bob. “Had you better stop and see a doctor?”

      “No, thanks. I’ll be all right. СКАЧАТЬ