Read Online The Mystery on Cobbett's Island by Julie Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Campbell
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you, Brian.”
“Honey, you’re wonderful,” said Trixie, putting an arm around her friend. “You can always see what’s making us out of sorts and come up with a solution. You’re right; there’s nothing like food to restore our spirits. So long, Peter. See you in the morning.”
“And speaking of food, tomorrow we’ll bring a picnic lunch to eat in the garden,” added Honey.
As they started home, the sun was beginning to set, and as it sank below the horizon, the sky was aflame with constantly shifting rose and purple.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” said Trixie as they turned into their driveway. “Tomorrow should be another perfect day!”
The toolshed had originally been a summer kitchen, where, years earlier, the cooking and preserving for the family had been done, to keep the main house as cool as possible. Since the Kimballs had been living in the Oldest House, they had used the building for storing tools, screens, and storm windows. There was even enough space in the upper room for a kind of sail loft, where Peter could hang his sails to dry or store them during the winter months.
The next morning, when the Bob-Whites arrived, Peter showed them through the little brick building. When they reached the upstairs room, he noticed that some of the sail bags, instead of hanging from the wooden pegs along the wall, had been taken down and were lying in a disorderly heap in one corner.
“I’m sure I hung up all those bags last fall,” said Peter, scratching his head. “I remember distinctly that when we took the boat out of the water after the last race, Dad helped me fold the sails, stow them in the bags, and hang them up. Now, who the dickens could have taken them down, and why?”
“Are any missing?” asked Trixie as she lifted one of the bags and read the words, HEAVY WEATHER MAINSAIL, stenciled on the side of the bag. “And this one next to it says ‘heavy weather jib.’ ”
“You mean ‘mains’l,’ ” chuckled Peter. “That’s the way the old salts pronounce it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain, ‘mains’l it shall be, and what do you call this one, a jib or a jab?” Trixie countered with a twinkle in her eyes.
“That’s a jib. No problem there,” Peter answered. “It’s a smaller sail that goes in front of the mains’l, and here’s the spinnaker,” he said, pulling part of it out of the bag.
“Oh, what a lovely color!” said Honey. “Are they always blue like that one?”
“Oh, no. Cap’s is plain white; some are red or yellow or just about any color you can think of, even stripes. It’s quite a sight to see a lot of Lightnings coining down the bay with their spinnakers up. Now, let’s see,” he continued, turning his attention to the other bags. “Here’s the light weather mains’l with its jib, so nothing’s missing. I don’t get it,” he said slowly as he replaced the sails on their pegs.
Trixie, in the meantime, had been looking around the room, and just as the others were about to go downstairs, she said, “Look, Peter. I’ve never seen you smoke, but does your father?”
“No, Dad doesn’t smoke, and I hate the things,” he answered. “Why?”
“Yes, that’s a funny question, Trix. What’s smoking got to do with sails?” Jim asked.
“Only this. Look over here a minute. See all those cigarette butts?” she asked, pointing to the corner.
“By Jove, what do you know!” exclaimed Peter as he knelt down beside Trixie, who was examining them closely.
“Trixie’s found a clue. Trixie’s found a clue,” chanted Mart.
“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t, lame-brain, but I know one thing: There are only two brands here. Whoever smoked this filter kind smoked his right down to the tip, but the regular-brand butts are crushed out before they’re half gone,” she observed as she separated the butts into two piles.
“There must have been just two people up here, then,” said Brian.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” quipped
“Honey, you’re wonderful,” said Trixie, putting an arm around her friend. “You can always see what’s making us out of sorts and come up with a solution. You’re right; there’s nothing like food to restore our spirits. So long, Peter. See you in the morning.”
“And speaking of food, tomorrow we’ll bring a picnic lunch to eat in the garden,” added Honey.
As they started home, the sun was beginning to set, and as it sank below the horizon, the sky was aflame with constantly shifting rose and purple.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” said Trixie as they turned into their driveway. “Tomorrow should be another perfect day!”
The toolshed had originally been a summer kitchen, where, years earlier, the cooking and preserving for the family had been done, to keep the main house as cool as possible. Since the Kimballs had been living in the Oldest House, they had used the building for storing tools, screens, and storm windows. There was even enough space in the upper room for a kind of sail loft, where Peter could hang his sails to dry or store them during the winter months.
The next morning, when the Bob-Whites arrived, Peter showed them through the little brick building. When they reached the upstairs room, he noticed that some of the sail bags, instead of hanging from the wooden pegs along the wall, had been taken down and were lying in a disorderly heap in one corner.
“I’m sure I hung up all those bags last fall,” said Peter, scratching his head. “I remember distinctly that when we took the boat out of the water after the last race, Dad helped me fold the sails, stow them in the bags, and hang them up. Now, who the dickens could have taken them down, and why?”
“Are any missing?” asked Trixie as she lifted one of the bags and read the words, HEAVY WEATHER MAINSAIL, stenciled on the side of the bag. “And this one next to it says ‘heavy weather jib.’ ”
“You mean ‘mains’l,’ ” chuckled Peter. “That’s the way the old salts pronounce it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain, ‘mains’l it shall be, and what do you call this one, a jib or a jab?” Trixie countered with a twinkle in her eyes.
“That’s a jib. No problem there,” Peter answered. “It’s a smaller sail that goes in front of the mains’l, and here’s the spinnaker,” he said, pulling part of it out of the bag.
“Oh, what a lovely color!” said Honey. “Are they always blue like that one?”
“Oh, no. Cap’s is plain white; some are red or yellow or just about any color you can think of, even stripes. It’s quite a sight to see a lot of Lightnings coining down the bay with their spinnakers up. Now, let’s see,” he continued, turning his attention to the other bags. “Here’s the light weather mains’l with its jib, so nothing’s missing. I don’t get it,” he said slowly as he replaced the sails on their pegs.
Trixie, in the meantime, had been looking around the room, and just as the others were about to go downstairs, she said, “Look, Peter. I’ve never seen you smoke, but does your father?”
“No, Dad doesn’t smoke, and I hate the things,” he answered. “Why?”
“Yes, that’s a funny question, Trix. What’s smoking got to do with sails?” Jim asked.
“Only this. Look over here a minute. See all those cigarette butts?” she asked, pointing to the corner.
“By Jove, what do you know!” exclaimed Peter as he knelt down beside Trixie, who was examining them closely.
“Trixie’s found a clue. Trixie’s found a clue,” chanted Mart.
“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t, lame-brain, but I know one thing: There are only two brands here. Whoever smoked this filter kind smoked his right down to the tip, but the regular-brand butts are crushed out before they’re half gone,” she observed as she separated the butts into two piles.
“There must have been just two people up here, then,” said Brian.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” quipped
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