The Mystery of Cabin Island by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

to stare at the mysterious letters in the tattered notebook.
    â€œHow will we ever figure it out?” Chet asked.
    â€œThere are several methods of deciphering,” Frank replied. “Dad has told Joe and me something about it, and we’ve read a few of his books on cryptography.”
    â€œCan you make anything out of this message?” Biff asked.
    â€œNot right off,” Frank replied. “It’s some kind of substitution system, at any rate.”
    â€œThe first thing to look for is transposition,” Joe explained. “All the letters of the actual text —what’s really meant—may be present, but reversed or scrambled.”
    â€œThere must be countless possibilities,” remarked Biff, “once you start putting one letter in place of another.”
    â€œYes, which makes deciphering very difficult,” Frank agreed. “But I remember several of the standard patterns. I’ll use some of the blank pages in the notebook and try them.”
    Frank worked for more than half an hour, while the others looked on and made various combinations of the letters he jotted down.
    â€œI’m stymied,” Frank admitted finally.
    Biff frowned. “How did Hanleigh get hold of this notebook? Does he know Sparewell?”
    â€œHanleigh might have swiped it,” Joe said.
    The Hardys pondered their next move. Joe suggested they take the iceboat model and the photo of the turbaned prowler to Mr. Jefferson for possible identification.
    â€œAnd on the way show Amos Grice the picture, too,” Frank added.
    A stop at the Hardy home also was included in the day’s plans, in case the boys’ father had any more information on the “alley cat.”
    Chet heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Biff and I stand guard here.”
    Joe grinned. “How’d you guess?”
    After a quick lunch the Hardys put on their parkas and boots. I’m taking the camera along,” Joe said. ”It may come in handy again.”
    The Hardys climbed into the Sea Gull and headed for Surfside. At the dock, Joe tied up while Frank braked and slackened sail. Then they strode off to the general store.
    Amos Grice, seated by the stove, slapped his knee when Frank and Joe walked in. “Glad to see you two. Thief steal your food again?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Frank said. “We came to show you this.” He handed the snapshot to Mr. Grice. The storekeeper stared at it, then handed the picture back without comment.
    â€œMr. Grice,” Joe inquired, “is this the man who asked you about Mr. Jefferson’s medals?”
    Amos Grice drew his lips into a thin, firm line.
    â€œYep. It’s him. But there’s some spooky busi ness goin’ on, and I don’t want any part of it.”
    â€œDid this man say something to frighten you?” Joe persisted. “Did he threaten you?”
    Mr. Grice looked grim. “No. But I’m not mixin’ in with any scary masqueraders.”
    The Hardys could see that the storekeeper would say no more on the subject. They thanked him and returned to the Sea Gull. A brisk wind sped them toward Bayport. They tied up outside their boathouse and drove home.
    Mrs. Hardy greeted her red-cheeked sons with big hugs, while Aunt Gertrude looked on apprehensively, as if trying to find something wrong with her nephews. Noting their excellent health, she turned her worrries to their companions.
    â€œHas something terrible happened to Chet or Biff?”
    â€œNo. Why, Aunty?” Joe asked.
    â€œThat sudden snowstorm. I was scared stiff for you boys. Some trees blew down over here.”
    Frank grinned. “We weathered it—howling banshee and all.”
    â€œA what?” Mrs. Hardy asked, and her sons told of the whistling bottle.
    â€œWell, I’m relieved to know that’s all the trouble you ran into,” Mrs. Hardy said.
    â€œOh, there was more,” Joe said. “By the way,