Free Danger on Vampire Trail by Franklin W. Dixon

nearly finished with their masterpieces.
    A tall man wearing western boots and a ten-gallon hat spoke over a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have fifteen judges—seven men, seven women, and a little girl. But one of the fellows dropped out. Do we have a volunteer taster?”
    â€œHere!” Joe cried out and lifted Chet’s arm in the air.
    â€œWait a minute!” the stout boy protested.
    â€œAh-ha,” the official called out. “That well-fed young man will be perfect.”
    Frank and Joe pushed Chet forward as the emcee went on, “What is your name?”
    â€œChet Morton.”
    â€œYou’ll be one of the dessert tasters.”
    A benign smile crossed Chet’s face. Desserts were his favorites!
    â€œI’m really in luck!” he told the Hardys.
    The aroma of the cook-off was enough to make anybody hungry. The smoke which drifted over the area carried the scent of grilled trout, gingered ham in tantalizing juices, and Twirly Birds, a special chicken recipe. Frank and Joe followed Chet to a table marked Desserts.
    â€œLook at these!” Chet exclaimed as he read the labels. “Caramel peach crunch, apple dumplings, and peach turnovers.”
    â€œWill the tasters eat sparingly of the sweets,” the announcer said. “I’m saying this for your own good!”
    Several men and women joined Chet as they sampled the luscious recipes. “Hm!” Chet mused. “Can’t seem to make up my mind!” He went from dish to dish, taking a man-sized portion each time. His eyes rolled and he smacked his lips.
    â€œCome on, Chet!” Joe prodded him as the onlookers chuckled.
    â€œThey’re all so good,” Chet said. “It’s awfully hard to figure out which is best!”
    â€œAll right,” Frank said. “Just one more time, fellow!”
    Chet patted his stomach and started down the line again, relishing each mouthful. Finally he decided. “I vote for the caramel peach crunch,” he said when the roll was called.
    â€œChet’s in for trouble,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Look, he’s getting pale.”
    â€œI’d say he’s getting green around the gills,” Frank remarked.
    Chet’s smile had vanished. “Fellows,” he said, “I’m going back to our trailer. How far is it?”
    â€œAbout ten miles,” Joe said. “Don’t say that!” Chet made his way through the crowd at a half-trot and held his stomach.
    By the time Frank and Joe reached the camper, they found their buddy lying down.
    â€œHow do you feel, my gourmet friend?” Joe asked.
    â€œBetter.”
    But Chet’s illness lasted the balance of the evening. In the morning he was still not his bouncy self.
    â€œWant to come downtown with us?” Joe asked after breakfast.
    â€œWhat for?”
    Frank explained that they were going to visit the Mountain Dogie Store.
    â€œDon’t ask me to do anything for a while, will you?” Chet begged.
    â€œOkay, you stay and recuperate,” Frank said. “Joe and I will be back later.”
    With a nod of appreciation, Chet said good-by. The Hardys unhitched their car and drove to a public telephone, where they contacted Biff to tell him of their whereabouts. Sherlock was well enough to travel, Biff reported, and they would leave that morning. Then Frank and Joe went on to downtown Denver. It did not take long to find the Mountain Dogie Store. A sign announced: The World’s Greatest Emporium for Sports and Camping.
    The smell of new cloth and leather goods pervaded the huge store. Crowds moved about inspecting hundreds of items from camping gear to sports clothes.
    At an information booth they obtained directions to the shoe department. Frank asked for the head clerk. He was a young man in his twenties.
    â€œWe’d like to know,” Frank said, “if anybody recently bought shoes here with a Magnacard.”
    The young