“What are they afraid of?” asked Biff.
The old man shrugged eloquently.
“That’s just it. Nobody knows. But there’s been queer lights seen down around them caves. And shootin’.”
“Shooting!”
“Guns goin’ off,” explained the storekeeper, as if they had failed to understand the word. “Mighty queer doin’s, they say. Two men a’ready that tried to find out what was goin’ on—they got shot at.”
Chet whistled softly.
“This sounds good,” he observed. “We may stay longer than we had intended.”
“Ye may stay forever,” growled the old man gloomily.
Frank smiled at this thrust.
“Has anybody any idea what’s wrong?” he asked.
The storekeeper leaned across the counter and lowered his voice, in the manner of one imparting a deep secret.
“They do say,” he declared, “that there’s smugglin’ in them parts.”
“I suppose that’s only natural. There’s a lot of it along the coast, and the caves would make that an ideal spot.”
“Well, whether there is or there ain’t, the caves ain’t healthy for strangers. If I was you lads, I’d stay away from there.”
“Well, we’ve planned this trip and I think we’ll go through with it,” Frank said. “If you’ll fix us up with some supplies, we’ll be on our way. We’re not afraid of smugglers.”
“Do as ye like,” the old man returned, as though washing his hands of any further responsibility. “But I’m warnin’ ye. It ain’t no place if ye’re lookin’ for a quiet outing.”
“The one thing we’re afraid of, is a quiet outing,” Joe assured him. “Excitement,” he added slangily, “is our meat.”
“Ye’ll get lots of it if ye go pokin’ around them caves,” the old gentleman predicted. “Mebbe a lot more than ye bargain for.”
However, he was prevailed upon to sell the lads a quantity of provisions for their trip, although he accompanied the transaction by a running fire of dismal comments on the unlikelihood that they would ever be seen alive again. When he saw that they were determined to go to the caves, in spite of his admonitions, he wagged his head sadly and mumbled a few caustic remarks on the stubbornness of boys in general who would never listen to their elders.
The Hardy boys and their chums, far from being frightened at the prospect of danger at Honeycomb Cliffs, were elated. They were disposed to disregard much of what the old man had said—the perils were most probably exaggerated in the retelling—but there was no mistaking the old man’s sincerity and they knew that undoubtedly there was a mystery of some kind concerning the neighborhood of the caves.
“What that mystery is, we’re going to find out,” said Joe, as they mounted their motorcycles again, duly laden with supplies. He expressed the determination of all.
“It looks a lot brighter,” Chet agreed. “There’s a chance of a bit of excitement now.”
“Oh, probably there’s nothing to it,” scoffed Biff. “Somebody has seen a tramp’s campfire on the cliffs and heard someone shooting at a rabbit, and started a big yarn out of it.”
“Well, we are going to have our own fun exploring those caves, and if there’s a mystery on foot, so much the better,” said Joe.
The boys followed the directions given them by the old storekeeper and in due time left the coast road and turned down a rutty, torturous lane that ended on the open seashore, near a fisherman’s cottage. The little house was built at the base of a hill and the beach ended at this point in towering cliffs. The lads could see a faint, winding path leading up the side of the hill back of the cottage.
“I know what they call this place,” said Chet gravely.
“I don’t think it has a name,” said Biff.
“Oh, yes, they call this place Fishhook.”
“Fishhook? Why?” asked Biff, neatly falling into the trap.
“Because it’s at the end of the line.”
With that, Chet brought his motorcycle to a stop. The Hardy boys also stopped, joining Chet in his laughter at the foolish look on Biff’s face when he saw how he had been duped.
The storekeeper had told them that the fisherman’s cottage was the last human habitation on the way to the caves and that they could very likely get permission to leave their machines there for safekeeping. To reach the caves they had to climb the path up the hillside until they reached the top of the cliffs, then proceed for a considerable distance until they came to a deep ravine, where they could descend to the shore. They would then find themselves on a beach whereby they could reach the caves to right and to left. The cliffs themselves cut off access to the caves by any other route than the ravines, several of which were to be encountered in the three miles of steep coast, as at the northern and southern extremities the cliffs were sheer to the deep water and could not be skirted even at low tide.
The boys had scarcely dismounted from their motorcycles when the door of the cottage opened and a stocky, leathern-faced man of middle age emerged. He was plainly a fisherman and he came over to them, a look of surprise on his broad, good-natured countenance.
“What can I do for you, my lads?” he inquired. “It ain’t often I see strangers here.”
“We want to know if we could leave our motorcycles here for safekeeping?” asked Frank.
“Certainly. Most certainly, you can. There’s a shed back of the house, where you can put ’em. Is it just for an hour or so? Goin’ up on the cliffs?”
“Perhaps for a few days. We were planning to go exploring among the caves.”
The fisherman’s expression changed instantly.
“Explorin’ the caves!” he exclaimed. “You’d best go back home. There’s strange doin’s in the caves these days. It’s no place for boys.”
IX
The Storm
Chet Morton laughed.
“We heard there were some queer things happening around here, but that doesn’t frighten us.”
“There’s nothing to laugh at, young man,” returned the fisherman tartly. “I’ve lived here for twenty years and I’m no fool. The caves ain’t healthy
