The Secret of the Caves

“fisherman’s””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“Then Joe turned on the record player. Chet, usually bashful with girls, asked Mary Todd to dance, and soon the living room was a blur of motion as the young people gyrated to the latest steps.””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“Biff rode in the Hardys’ car with Frank and Joe while Chet chauffeured the girls in his jalopy. Five miles later they stopped at the Hamburger Haven, piled out of the cars, and occupied counter stools. After the girls had ordered, Chet boomed, “Three burgers for me, a double order of French fries, and a thick chocolate malted.””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“never enjoyed a meal more than their supper in the cave. The driftwood blazed and crackled, casting a cheerful glow which illuminated the rocky ceiling and walls of the underground chamber. With crisp bacon, bread toasted brown before the fire, hot chocolate, and jam, they ate ravenously, and at last sat back with deep sighs of sheer content.””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“At dusk Chet produced the frying pan, and the fragrant odor of sizzling bacon soon permeated their refuge. The boys””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“Fish Hook? Why?” Biff asked, neatly falling into Chet’s trap. “Because it’s at the end of the line.” Chet guffawed and slapped Biff on the back. Biff groaned. “You really hooked me on that one, pal.” “Okay,” said Joe. “Let’s cut the comedy and see if we can park here.””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“They retraced their route over the highway, then turned to the right down a steep rutted lane that ended on the open seashore near the fisherman’s cottage. The small house was built at the base of the hill two hundred yards from where the beach ended abruptly against towering cliffs. The waves battered against the sheer wall of rock. The quartet could make out a winding path leading up the hill directly in back of the cottage. “I know what they call this place,” Chet said gravely. “Does it have a name?” Biff asked. “Sure. Fish Hook.””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“a couple of stores and a few shacks.” True, Rockaway could hardly be called a town. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque and redolent of fish. A weather-beaten frame building stood across the street. Above the door was a large sign: TUTTLE’S GENERAL STORE. “Let’s stock up on grub,” Frank said. He and Joe took rucksacks from their car and the four boys headed for the store. A venerable man with whiskers was seated behind a counter. He was intently scrutinizing a newspaper. The old gentleman put aside the newspaper and regarded them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity. “You’re Mr. Tuttle?” Frank””

— Franklin W. Dixon

“town. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque and redolent of fish. A weather-beaten frame building stood across the street. Above the door was a large sign: TUTTLE’S GENERAL STORE. “Let’s stock up on grub,” Frank said. He and Joe took rucksacks from their car and the four boys headed for the store. A venerable man with whiskers was seated behind a counter. He was intently scrutinizing a newspaper. The old gentleman put aside the newspaper and regarded them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity. “You’re Mr. Tuttle?” Frank””

— Franklin W. Dixon