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

intently. Echoing down the lake from the ramparts came the ominous thump, thump, thump of a drum!

CHAPTER VII
    An Angry Sculptor
    â€œLISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.
    â€œWhat is it?” Chet asked.
    Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.
    Joe explained as they got back in the car. “I’m positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. “It was coming from—the fort!”
    A cold chill raced up Chet’s spine. He shuddered. “Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted ?”
    â€œIt could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. “Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn’t you tell us you were so hungry?”
    The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.
    The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted. Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!
    â€œSomebody’s trying to get into the gallery!”
    The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.
    â€œFan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.
    Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.
    â€œThis way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.
    â€œWhere? I can’t see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. “F-Frank—is that you?”
    â€œYes. Come on! Over here!”
    Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused. Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.
    â€œHe must have headed to the right!” Joe’s voice rang out.
    Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.
    â€œJoe—it’s you!”
    â€œFrank!”
    Presently they saw Chet’s chunky shadow approach. “Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.
    Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.
    â€œThat guy’s a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.
    â€œOne thing is certain,” Frank remarked. “He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”
    â€œWonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. “He was tall—dennitely not the thief we’ve already seen.”
    The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet’s uncle.
    â€œWe didn’t get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, “but this is definite proof there’s more than one person after the fort treasure.”
    He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.
    â€œNo footprints,” he reported. “Check with us in the morning.”
    Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.
    Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.
    Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. “This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn’t designed to hold off thieves!”
    Joe grinned. “I hope we are.”
    The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs