The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road

can raise money by selling tickets to their plays or games. The school board gives them money, knowing they’ll earn part of it back. But art just isn’t like that. If we’d been able to raise a lot of money here today, there might have been a chance, but—” Nick shrugged.
    “If anyone can think of a way to help, it’s Trixie,” Honey assured Nick. “But in the meantime, I can do something, and that’s buy the picture of the Manor House. Its perfectly perfect, and it will make the best Mother’s Day present I could ever find.”
    “Oh, woe,” Trixie moaned. “Here we go again. I’d already decided that I have to have the picture of Crabapple Farm, but giving it away was the furthest thing from my mind. Now that you’ve said that, I’ll feel selfish if I don’t give Moms the drawing, but I’ll be heartbroken if I have to give it up.”
    Honey laughed. “Knowing you, Trixie, that drawing will be hanging in the living room of Crabapple Farm before the sun sets on Mother’s Day. Anyway, it’s not as though you’re really giving it up. You’ll be able to see it every single day until you move away from home—which won’t be for a long time.”
    “You’re right, as usual, Honey,” Trixie said, handing Nick her money and taking the drawing. ’And besides, if I save all my spare nickels and dimes between now and then, maybe I can offer Nick a commission and ask him to draw another—” Trixie broke off in midsentence as she saw Nick staring over her head toward the entrance to the gym.
    Turning around, she saw Ben Riker and three of his friends. They were swaggering into the gym, and Ben’s friends were talking loudly enough for everyone at the art fair to hear.
    “Sure would be nice to stop over at Wimpy’s for a cola,” Mike Larson said.
    “Yeah, but our buddy Ben is the only one with a car,” Jerry Vanderhoef answered. “And he can’t come along because he has to play chauffeur to his cute little cousin and her freckle-faced chum.” Ben looked embarrassed, but he managed to reply in the same sneering tone. “It’s just my good deed for the day, pals. I’m much too wonderful a guy to pass up two maidens in distress.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Mike jeered. He turned to the third boy and pretended to be speaking confidentially as he said loudly, “You know what I think? I think Ben’s got a crush on tomboy Trixie.”
    “Nah,” Bill Wright said disdainfully. “I think Ben just likes being a chauffeur. I heard he’s going to get himself a little uniform and a cap, just like Tom Delanoy, his uncle’s chauffeur, wears.”
    “Hey, knock it off,” Ben said, giving Bill a shove that was meant to look playful but actually had a great deal of force behind it.
    “What’s the matter, Ben? Does the truth hurt your feelings?” Bill shoved Ben back, knocking him into the table that held the display of pottery that Trixie and Honey had looked at earlier.
    The girls heard the crash as one of the pieces of pottery shattered on the floor, and they rushed to the table with Nick Roberts right behind them.
    At the table, they found Amy staring at her shattered blue vase and trying to hold back her tears.
    Honey put her arms around Amy. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Why, oh, why, did it have to be that vase that broke?”
    Amy attempted a wry grin that didn’t quite work. “I guess that was a third possibility I hadn’t considered,” she said. “It looks as though I lost, after all.”
    After a momentary silence, Ben’s friends recovered their mocking attitude.
    “Oh, Ben,” said Jerry sarcastically, “look what you’ve done. You’re so destructive !”
    “Clumsy, too,” added Bill. “Well, now you can get a broom and a dustpan and do your second good deed for the day—cleaning up this terrible mess! See you around, Ben!” Laughing loudly, the boys left the gym.
    Ben, his face flushed, reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I guess I broke the stupid thing, so I might as well pay for it. What do I owe you?” he asked Amy.
    Nick Roberts stepped between the girl and Ben Riker. “That ’stupid thing,’ as you call it, took more time and effort than you’ve probably ever put into anything. It was a work of art, meant to be looked at and enjoyed, not swept up and thrown into a garbage can in a million pieces. I know your type. You’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter, and you think you can bail your way out of anything with money. But