The Haunted Fort Read Online Free

toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!
    Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. “Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!” Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.
    Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. “Now, what were you saying?”
    Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.
    â€œCould you tell us something about the Prisoner-Painter, Mr. Davenport?” Joe asked. “And the fort, too?” At that instant Frank heard a faint sound and saw the double door of the study open a fraction of an inch!
    â€œAn eavesdropper!” he thought. Frank rushed across the room, but already footsteps were racing down the hallway. Grabbing the knobs, he flung the doors wide open.

CHAPTER IV
    A Crimson Clue
    STUMBLING footsteps sounded at the bottom of the high porch, but by the time Frank dashed outside, the eavesdropper had vanished.
    Disappointed, he returned to the others in the study. “Whoever he was, he didn’t drop any clues,” Frank reported.
    â€œYou’re alert, boys,” Mr. Davenport commented. “I like that. What’s more, you’re not afraid, like that custodian who guarded my fort.”
    â€œYour fort?” Joe asked in surprise.
    â€œYes, young man, Senandaga belongs to me.”
    â€œWhat happened to the custodian?” asked Frank.
    â€œHe left. Quit. Said he couldn’t stand all that haunting—queer noises and so forth. To hear him talk, there’s a whole regiment of ghosts manning the parapets.” Mr. Davenport looked thoughtful. “Of course, he claims he had some close calls.”
    â€œSuch as?” Frank queried.
    â€œSaid chunks of masonry nearly fell on him a couple of times. But”—the art patron looked skeptical—“I don’t put much stock in that.”
    â€œNow nobody takes care of the fort?” Joe asked.
    â€œNobody. And there aren’t any pesky visitors, either,” Davenport said with satisfaction. “Anyhow, we have enough to do tracking down the art thieves without worrying about the fort.”
    Then the boys asked Mr. Davenport about his ancestor, the Prisoner-Painter.
    â€œJason Davenport was a great soldier,” he began. “When hostilities broke out between the North and the South, he rose quickly to brigadier general. Then, in one rally near the Potomac, he broke the Union line but penetrated too far without logistical support and was captured. He was held prisoner for the duration at my fort.”
    â€œA brave man,” Joe said. “An ancestor to be proud of.”
    â€œThe fort is south of here on Crown Lake, isn’t it?” Frank asked.
    Mr. Davenport nodded, motioning toward the large window. “If it weren’t for the promontory nearby, you could see Senandaga.” He reflected. “Jason Davenport died shortly after the war ended. But had he not been a prisoner there, there wouldn’t be the seventeen canvases of Fort Senandaga, three of which,” he added in a rueful tone, “have been stolen.”
    Mr. Davenport explained that the general had taken up painting to while away the days. He was a popular hero, well liked by his captors, and received many special favors, including the art materials necessary for his new interest.
    â€œHe showed a real genius in imagining different views of the fort from the surrounding countryside.”
    â€œAnd that’s why his paintings are valuable enough to tempt a thief?” Joe asked,