The Mystery of Cabin Island

By Franklin W. Dixon.

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I

Iceboating on the Bay

Driven by a stiff breeze from the west, a trim little iceboat went scudding over the frozen surface of Barmet Bay. The winter air was cold and clear, the hills rising from the shores were blanketed in snow, and although a patch of black water away off toward the east gave evidence that King Frost had been balked at the Atlantic, the bay itself was a gleaming sheet of ice.

The long cold snap had caused rejoicing in the hearts of the young folk of Bayport. Although the ice in mid-bay was not solid, along the shore and in the numerous coves of the indented bay it was frozen to a safe depth. The dark figures of skaters sped like swallows in flight on the miniature natural rinks close to shore, and farther out the speeding iceboats with their billowing sails resembled huge sea gulls as they raced before the wind.

Frank Hardy, a dark, handsome boy of sixteen, was at the tiller of the craft that represented several weeks’ hard work on the part of himself and his brother Joe. Although it was homemade, the iceboat was staunch and stoutly built and as it sped over the gleaming surface the boys were justifiably proud of their handiwork.

“This is great!” shouted Frank. “Iceboating beats motorboating all to pieces.”

Joe, a fair, curly-haired youngster who was a year Frank’s junior, was sitting forward with their chum, Chet Morton.

“I’ll say it is!” he agreed. “I don’t think there’s a faster boat on the bay.”

Chet, plump and good-natured, his round face red with cold and shining like a full moon, kicked up his heels in ecstasy and nearly went overboard as the boat swerved to avoid an ice hummock ahead.

“This is real speed!” he declared, scrambling back to safety. “No traffic cops out here, either.”

“Glad tomorrow is Saturday,” said Frank. “We can spend the whole day out here.”

“And the holidays!” exclaimed Joe. “Don’t forget the Christmas holidays. Only another week.”

“I’m glad you reminded me,” Chet called out. “I had clean forgotten about them.”

The others laughed. In his desk at school, Chet had a small calendar, and as each day passed he carefully stroked out the date and hopefully counted the days that remained before vacation.

“What say we go camping when the holidays come?” he suggested.

“Camping!” Frank exclaimed. “Camping is for summer time.”

“Just as much fun in winter. There are lots of shacks and cottages along shore. We could rent one for a couple of weeks. One with a fireplace and a stove. With lots of firewood and blankets and grub we’d be as comfortable as we could wish—and think of the fun we’d have iceboating.”

“Say, that’s a mighty good idea,” ventured Joe. “Sometimes you do use your head for something besides putting your hat on it. What do you think, Frank?”

“I think that Chet has had a real idea—for once in his life.”

Chet grinned good-naturedly at this chaff of his comrades.

“Well, if it’s a good idea, let’s carry it through.”