Frank, who was standing close by, could not help but overhear. He was electrified by astonishment.
The man who had gone through the train shook his head.
“Nary a sign of ’em on that train,” he said.
“I can’t figure out what happened,” said the bearded man. “They ain’t been on any train that’s passed through here—we’re sure of that.”
“This here is the only way they can get to Lucky Bottom. If they did manage to sneak out of Chicago we’d be sure to see ’em goin’ through here.”
“Mebby they didn’t get out of Chicago. The boys there might have picked up their trail again and caught ’em.”
“They would have wired us if they had.”
“That’s true, too.” The bearded man scratched the back of his head in perplexity. “I can’t figger it out at all. Well, it ain’t our fault. We’ve done the best we could.”
“Yeah, they can’t blame us.”
“You’re sure you went all through the train?”
“Right through. There was no two boys on it. There was one lad sittin’ in the Pullman readin’ a book, but he wasn’t like the description of either one of ’em. Wore glasses. Looked like he was a regular little willy-boy.”
“Wore glasses, eh? Well, he wasn’t one of the Hardy boys, then. They don’t wear glasses.”
The pair moved off down the platform.
“You’d better go through the night train when it comes in. We’ll keep on the lookout for ’em for a few days more until we get word one way or the other. The boss would be sore if they got through on us.”
“Well, they haven’t got through yet. That’s one thing certain.” The two men moved out of earshot.
Frank was tingling with excitement. He stepped toward the train, intending to go to Joe and tell him what he had heard. Then he hesitated. The rough-looking man who had searched the train might conceivably think he had been mistaken and might go through the train again. If he saw the two lads together he might be suspicious, spectacles or no spectacles. So Frank sauntered unobtrusively up and down the platform until it was time for the train to leave. Then he swung himself on board, but not until the train was actually pulling out did he rejoin his brother.
“What kept you?” asked Joe, looking up.
Frank sat down and, in a low voice, recounted the incident of the platform. Joe listened in almost incredulous surprise.
“So it looks as though we’ve run the gauntlet at last,” concluded Frank.
“Boy! it was certainly a bright thought of yours that we wear spectacles on this trip. He would have spotted me in a minute.”
“It was luckier still that we weren’t together when he walked all through the train. If he had told that black-bearded man that there were two boys sitting together they might both have gone back for a second look at us.”
“Well, we got out of it all right. I don’t think there’s anything more to be feared.”
“Not until we reach Lucky Bottom.”
“I wonder what we’ll bump up against there.”
“Plenty—by the looks of things so far.”
The train continued on its laborious way through the mountains. It passed through little mining villages, abandoned camps, climbing on up to higher altitudes until, late in the afternoon, the Hardy boys heard the cry for which they had been waiting so long.
“Lucky Bottom! Lucky Bottom!”
XI
Fenton Hardy’s Story
Lucky Bottom was a particularly desolate place in the winter time. It was not especially prepossessing at any season, but when the cold winds blew down from the rocky mountainsides and when snow drifted deep in the narrow street Lucky Bottom seemed like a deserted village. It had once been a prosperous mining camp, but one by one the mines had been worked out until now there was but one left. A few prospectors made the village their headquarters still, hanging on in the vain hope of some day making a lucky strike that would restore the town to its former grandeur, but the general impression prevailed that Lucky Bottom’s days were numbered.
There were a few gaunt, hard-bitten individuals on the station platform when the Hardy boys got off the train. They were the only passengers that day and evidently it was unusual for anyone to alight at Lucky Bottom, because the loungers stared at them as if they were beings from another world.
“Can you tell me where Hank Shale’s cabin is?” asked Frank of one of the men leaning against the station.
The native shifted his chew of tobacco, spat into the snow, and reflected.
“Straight down Main Street,” he said. “Then you start climbin’ the hill. When you get to the top of the hill you’ll find Hank’s place. You can see it from here.”
He conducted them to the end of the platform and pointed to the top of a hill back of the collection of shacks comprising the town. The boys could see a small log cabin, almost hidden by trees and almost buried in the snow. The distance was not great, so Frank and Joe, after thanking the man who had directed them, started off toward the cabin.
They went through Lucky Bottom, which was nothing more than a collection of shacks and cabins ranged on either side of a wide street, and struck out up the hill until the street came to an end. There they followed a narrow path through the snow until at length they reached Hank Shale’s place.
Their approach had evidently been seen, because the door opened as they neared the cabin and an elderly man with heavy, drooping mustache stood awaiting them.
“You the Hardy lads?” he inquired, in a piping voice.
“Yes. This is Mr. Shale’s place, isn’t it?” returned Frank.
“Come in. Come in,” invited Hank Shale, standing aside to let them enter. “We’ve been expecting you this last day.”
The boys entered a small, two-roomed cabin, a typical bachelor’s residence, which, however, was kept scrupulously neat. They had barely time to look around before Hank Shale led
