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where one could buy anything from safety pins to grindstones, where one could mail a letter, put through a telephone call, or obtain garage service, appeared to be the most likely spot. Parking their machines by the wooden sidewalk, the lads went into the store, where they found a venerable man with white whiskers patiently scrutinizing his newspaper.

"I guess we'd better stock up on a few supplies, eh, fellows?" Frank suggested.

This had been their plan. Instead of burdening their machines with provisions all the way from Bayport, they had decided to get supplies at the village nearest to the caves.

"Perhaps we won't have to stock up very heavily," said Joe. "If the caves aren't far away we may be able to drive up here when we run short of grub."

"That," said the hungry Chet, "would be terrible."

Frank turned to the old gentleman, who had put aside his paper and was regarding them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity entirely.

"How far is it to the place they call Honeycomb Cliffs?" he asked.

The old gentleman's eyes widened.

"Honeycomb Cliffs!" he said, in a high, cracked voice. "Be ye goin' to pass by there?"