The Haunted Fort by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online

amusing task!”
    Chet had edged over to the large dictionary. He would get one up on the Hardys, and at the same time not feel so stupid about “impasto.”
    Frank observed their stout friend from the corner of his eye, but made no move to give him away. Chet picked up the book and leafed through it, backing toward the window for better light.
    Joe, meanwhile, could not resist asking Gilman, “Do you paint?”
    The plump man looked out the window, his hands behind his back. “I am, first and foremost, a critic,” he declared haughtily, “and widely known by the elite of the artistic world. I—”
    Crash!
    The Hardys and Gilman jumped and wheeled about. On the floor lay the suit of armor. Standing over it was Chet, his face flaming red. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I backed right into it.” Quickly he put the dictionary on the table.
    â€œStudying too hard?” Frank grinned as he helped right the knight figure. “No damage, sir.”
    The critic raised his eyes to the ceiling. “My nerves!”
    Chet sheepishly placed the dictionary on the table and joined the brothers as they studied the fort painting. “Impasto,” muttered the plump boy, “is the thick application of pigment to a canvas or panel, for your information.”
    â€œOkay, professor.” Joe chuckled.
    They peered closely at the picture’s surface, trying to detect some kind of telltale marks in the composition. From several strategic questions, the Hardys gathered that Gilman knew nothing of any clue to the chaîne d’or.
    Finally, the critic coughed meaningfully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I must be getting to work on an important critique.”
    The boys, disappointed in the outcome of their mission, thanked the man and left.
    â€œSo that’s Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said scornfully as they headed south on the lake road. “What a swellhead! And he sure has it in for Millwood. No wonder Mr. Davenport doesn’t like him.”
    â€œYou said it!” Chet agreed, “Uncle Jim and his students must resent a character like that.”
    Frank appeared lost in thought. “I wish we could do more in getting to the bottom of this mystery. If only we knew what kind of clue to look for!”
    â€œDo you think Gilman has any interest in the gold chain?” Chet asked.
    Frank shrugged. “He didn’t act like it—but you never know.”
    Joe’s lip curled. “He’s too busy dreaming up acid criticisms.”

    The suit of armor crashed to the floor
    A mist hung over the lake now, the water below them seeming almost colorless through the trees. Up ahead at a bend in the road, Chet noticed an observation area offering a commanding view of the lake. The boys decided to pull over for a look.
    â€œMaybe we can see the fort from here,” Joe said. Chet parked on the wide shoulder and they got out.
    A strong wind coursed up the slopes from the lake. Several homes were scattered along the opposite shore. The boys looked out to their right. Barely visible in the dusk was the jutting outline of one of Senandaga’s walls. The Hardys again speculated on the collapse of the fort section that morning.
    Suddenly Joe leaned forward and asked curiously, “What kind of craft is that?”
    The others looked down and saw a small white barge, coupled to a green tugboat. They could dimly make out two metal strands coming from the front of the barge.
    â€œOh, that must be the cable ferry Uncle Jim mentioned,” Chet recalled. “It takes cars and passengers across the lake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back,” he said. “Supper was a long time ago!” The famished boy grinned and the brothers laughed.
    They started for the car. Joe, who was last, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His ears strained to catch a distant sound.
    â€œFellows, wait! Hear that?”
    They listened