Read Online The Mysterious Code by Julie Campbell - Free Book Online

whistle,” Brian said. “They’re probably at home by
now. All right, Trixie, if you say you’re going with us, you will. Some girls
just never seem to know their place.”
    “And some boys think
they know everything,” Trixie said and strode off through the woods, the boys
following close behind her.
    There was definite
evidence that someone had gone over the path recently. Their steps were fresh
in the banked snow. The boys followed the path till it opened onto the byway to
Glen Road. Then, dejected, they turned back home.
    “That’s a warning
for us,” Trixie said. “Someone has read in the Sun about the jewel box
and the antiques we have in the clubhouse. We’ll have to guard them night and
day.”
    “You know we can’t
do that,” Jim said.
    “We can, with
a burglar alarm,” Trixie said. “One that would sound in Regan’s quarters,
maybe.”
    “Say, I’ll ask him
about it—right away!” Jim said. “See you tomorrow.”
    “Wait a minute,
Jim,” Trixie said. “We’d better not say anything about what happened tonight
except maybe to Regan. Moms might not want us to work at the clubhouse at night
if she thought anyone might try to break in. We can keep a sharp lookout
ourselves.”
    When they got back
to Crabapple Farm, the house was nearly dark. The family had gone to bed. “We
don’t have to answer any questions tonight,” Trixie said, relieved.
     
    The next day after
breakfast Mrs. Belden said, “Trixie, I have a book Mrs. Vanderpoel wants. It’s
about herbs, and she’s going to try to grow some indoors this winter. Will you
please take the book over to her? Take Bobby with you on his sled, please.”
    “Yes, Trixie, take
me. I want a ride!” Bobby cried and went to get his coat and cap.
    “All right, Moms,”
Trixie said, “but I thought it would be a good chance today to go out and try
to locate some more furniture for the boys to repair, and maybe list some of
the antiques we want to borrow to exhibit at our show.”
    “It is possible that
Mrs. Vanderpoel may let you exhibit some of her antiques,” Mrs. Belden said.
“Don’t you remember? Her house is full of them. She’s lived in that one place
for ages. Her parents, and her mother’s parents, too, lived there before her.”
    “I don’t know why I
didn’t think of her,” Trixie said. “Hurry, Bobby; let’s go.”
    Mrs. Vanderpoel’s
home was of yellow brick. The bricks were small, handmade ones, brought over
from Holland by early Dutch settlers. The house, surrounded by trees, was on a
wandering road that led from Glen Road back about a mile through the woods to
the fringe of the game preserve Mr. Wheeler had recently bought.
    “Giddyap, Trixie!”
Bobby called. He imagined she was his trusty black horse carrying his sled over
the snow. Trixie galloped on at his bidding, and, when rosy-cheeked old Mrs.
Vanderpoel opened her back door to her knock, Trixie was too breathless to
speak for a moment.
    “Come in, children,”
Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “There are some oatmeal cookies—I’ve just finished
baking. Sit down here beside Brom, Bobby, and I'll give you a glass of milk.
There, there, Brom, these are the Belden children from Crabapple Farm.”
    An old man sat at
the table, his face almost hidden in a bush of whiskers.
    “Are you Rip Van
Winkle?” Bobby asked as he scrambled into a chair and filled his mouth with a
big cookie.
    The old man laughed
till he shook. “No, sir, Bobby, I’m not,” he said. “I’m not Ichabod Crane,
either,” he added in a firmer voice. Trixie and Mrs. Vanderpoel had gone into
another room. Brom was shy, but not with little boys.
    “I know you’re not
Ichabod Crane,” Bobby said. “He was as thin as a skeleton and you’re—”
    “I’m certainly not
skinny,” the old man said. “My name is Brom—just Brom. There’s another name,
too, but it’s a long Dutch name, and you wouldn’t remember it.”
    “It’s
Vanderheidenbeck,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said to Trixie in a