Frank was taking advantage of every changing gust of wind. The breeze was changing and he tacked to starboard, allowing his rival a momentary burst of speed that left the Hardy boys trailing in the rear.
“Too bad!” muttered Chet. “Can’t beat that boat.”
“Just wait and see,” advised Frank.
The changing breeze filled the sail and again the iceboat sprang forward. The other craft was slowing down, and the steersman was desperately trying to bring it about with the wind again. But he was too late. The Hardy boys’ boat swept triumphantly across his bow and Chet gave a shout of delight. On down the bay sped the little craft and by the time the other boat’s sails were billowing again the lads were far in the lead. Looking back, they saw the beaten rival slowly turning about into the wind, heading back up the bay.
“That’s real seamanship!” declared Joe.
“Oh, well, we have a good boat,” returned Frank, refusing to claim any credit for the victory. “We were lucky the wind changed.”
Ahead of them loomed a high, gloomy cliff, rising sheer from the ice. Beyond that, they knew, was one of the largest coves on Barmet Bay, known as Cabin Cove.
“Let’s go on and take a look at Cabin Island,” suggested Chet. “Seeing we’re so close to the place we might as well pay it a visit.”
“Sure thing,” approved the others.
Cabin Island, in Cabin Cove, was a lonely spot, even more desolate now that the bay was locked in ice. It was seldom visited, even in the summer months, because it was an inhospitable place, with high cliffs rising almost directly from the water, with only a few landing places that were difficult of access.
The Hardy boys had often wanted to visit the island in the summer, but their motorboat, the Sleuth, was too large to be maneuvered among the rocks that skirted the lonely shore, without running danger of being dashed to pieces by the angry waves.
“We won’t have any trouble making a landing now,” said Frank. “We can bring the iceboat right up to the base of the cliffs until we find a place where it is possible to climb to the top.”
The island was heavily covered with timber, and at one time it had been inhabited, for a big log cabin had been constructed on an eminence overlooking the bay. From this cabin, the island had derived its name. The cabin was deserted now, and to the boys’ knowledge no one had lived there for the past five years, either in summer or winter.
The iceboat swung around the point, the cliffs lowering bleakly overhead, and they sped down into the great cove.
Cabin Island, dark and austere, lay before them, the ice gleaming on every side. The evergreen timber rose above the white snow, and at the southern end of the island the cabin could be plainly seen.
Within a few minutes, the iceboat was speeding along in the lee of the island, close to the steep walls of rock. The boys eagerly scanned the cliffs in the hope of finding a landing place.
At last Frank gave a murmur of satisfaction and steered the craft toward a break in the cliff. Here there was a small ravine and against the background of snow the boys distinctly saw a path that wound up the sloping side of the ravine toward the cabin above.
“Thought there’d be a landing place here somewhere,” he said.
“Queer,” said Chet, eyeing the path. “Must be someone on that island.”
“There are footprints, sure enough.”
“It snowed three days ago. There must have been someone here since then,” Joe observed.
“Probably some other chaps came out here in an iceboat,” said Frank carelessly. “If that’s the case, they’ve been kind enough to break trail for us.”
He guided the iceboat into the little bay and its sail flapped idly as it came to a stop just a few feet from shore. The boys hopped out on to the ice and stretched their legs, then anchored the craft and made it secure. The little bay was sheltered from the wind. It was a natural harbor, and evidently the owner of the island had built his cabin where he did because of this ideal landing place that in summer was almost hidden from view by the overhanging trees.
Frank was examining the footprints leading toward the upper level.
“Only one set of footprints here,” he said. “They seem quite fresh, too. I wonder if anyone is up there now.”
“Must be,” returned Joe. “The footprints lead up the hill, but there is none leading back.”
“Perhaps he went down the other side,” Chet suggested. “Well, we can’t let that scare us away. Let’s go.”
With Frank in the lead, the boys began to ascend the winding path, following those mysterious footprints in the snow.
They were about halfway up the side of the ravine when suddenly a dark figure appeared from behind a clump of trees a few yards ahead. A surly-looking man, black-browed and swarthy, advanced toward them, striding through the snow.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rasping voice.
“Just thought we’d explore the island, sir,” answered Frank. “We hope you don’t mind.”
“I do mind!” retorted the stranger curtly. “Get away from here and stay away. I don’t allow visitors.”
“But—”
“No argument!” he snapped. “You’re trespassing here. Get away, now. Make tracks.”
“We won’t damage anything,” piped Chet.
“Do you hear me? Get off this island at once! Clear out, and be quick about it!”
The stranger glared at them angrily. Frank saw that nothing would be gained by arguing the matter. He shrugged.
“All right, sir.”
“Thanks for the hospitality!” sang out Chet, as the boys turned about and retraced their steps down the path.
II
Heading for Trouble
“Something queer about this business,” said Frank Hardy, as
