The Mystery on the Mississippi

appeared.
    Trixie was aware of extreme dryness in her throat. She longed for water. She was not hungry, but the vision of a glass of clear, cool water haunted her. Honey must be very thirsty, too.
    Since the moment of awakening and her small movement toward Trixie, Honey had not stirred. Maybe she had fainted! Trixie bumped her body against her friend’s. Honey answered with a low moan from the back of her throat.
    Sustained by the thought that Honey was alive and conscious, a little of Trixie’s courage returned. She raised her head and looked about. In the early morning light, she could see signs of her captors’ recent activity. Empty cans from soup and baked beans were collected in a corner. There were chicken bones on the floor, along with discarded milk cartons and empty wine bottles.
    The floor near the girls was strewn with torn paper and scattered tissues. Trix saw the broken mirror of her compact there, too, glistening in the morning light. Nearby lay her address book, and on the floor near her purse, where Mrs. Aguilera had hastily thrown it, lay the key to their room at Vacation Inn. By some queer chance, not one of the three had noticed the key.
    What a fool I was ever to come here with the Aguileras! Trixie thought tragically. It was bad enough for me to take a chance, when I always suspected Mrs. Aguilera’s motives. It was worse for me to involve Honey. Now we’ll never again see our homes in Sleepyside. Mr. Wheeler will think I even deserve to die, because I will have caused Honey’s death! Oh, I do wish my dad could know where I am. And my mom! I’ll never see my little brother, Bobby, again! Where can the boys be? Don’t they know how badly we need them? Jim, where are you? Brian, Mart, Dan? I’m sure something would tell me if they were in danger. They’re sleeping, safe in their room at the motel.
    Trixie concentrated with all her might on trying to send a mental message for help. Try as she would, she couldn’t feel she had reached the mind of anyone—the boys, Mr. Wheeler, Mr. Brandio.
    Gradually, in the midst of her thinking, Trixie became aware of voices. On the shore somewhere she could hear faint voices. They were young voices. Mart? Dan? Brian? Jim? The voices came nearer. She could hear words. The voices were those of strangers, but someone alive and near was speaking, someone who wasn’t Pierre Lontard, who wasn’t the Aguileras!
    Trixie alerted Honey. Both girls raised their heads to listen.
    “I sure would like to get that old bass,” a boy’s voice said.
    “I’ve got dibs on that old fish myself,” another answered. “I saw him first. Why’d you suppose I got up so early?”
    “To get here before I did,” the first one answered, laughing. “I caught you, though, didn’t I, just as you stepped out of your yard?”
    There was a sound of crackling branches pushed aside and the sloshing of rubber boots through marshy grass.
    “There’s bass enough here for both of us. Over there on the other side of that log, see? Near the old steamboat. That’s the best fishin’ hole for miles. Drop your line over there, Dave.”
    Dave’s reel spun, and his line whined off toward the far end of the steamboat. “I got a fish, Mike!” he called exultantly. “It’s your turn.”
    Inside, listening, Trixie’s mind tried desperately to think of a way to attract the boys’ attention. What could she do? Her feet were bound. She couldn’t stand. Her arms were bound. She couldn’t reach for anything. Her mouth was gagged. She couldn’t cry out.
    Beside her, Honey groaned feebly back in her throat. She was apparently going through the same agony of frustration.
    One line whirred and was reeled in. The other boy cast again, and soon Trixie could hear a fish struggling in the water.
    Tears gathered in the reddened eyes of the listening girls as minutes, half an hour, then an hour went by. Possible help was so near, yet there was no way to reach out for it.
    If the boys would only come aboard the steamboat! Trixie thought. If they did, how could she attract their attention? The thumps she made on the floor probably wouldn’t be heard outside the door. And the door was locked!
    Her eyes darted around the room, from object to object. I could knock over a chair , she thought, if I could bump across the floor to reach it. But it’s in that far corner , and the boys would be gone before I could ever reach it.
    Her glance went to the floor, to the debris there.
    She singled out the