The Ghost at Skeleton Rock by Franklin W. Dixon

directions I have marked, senores.”
    The drive was thoroughly enjoyable, with a cool trade wind steadily blowing in from the sea. On their left, the blue-green mountains rose toward the cloudless sky.
    The lush coastal plain was dotted with waving seas of sugar cane, interspersed here and there with fields of pineapple planted in orderly rows.
    In places the road became hilly, with shade trees arching overhead. Some were flamboyantes, the flame trees with gorgeous red blossoms.
    â€œThings really grow here!” Joe said admiringly.
    â€œLike living in a flower garden!” Frank remarked. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude would love this.”
    Arriving in Manati, the boys inquired the way to the Delgado plantation and were told it was located a mile north of town. When they reached it, Senor Delgado greeted them cordially on the steps of his long, low white bungalow.
    â€œWelcome, amigos! I understand you have come to learn about pineapples.”
    â€œYes, Senor Delgado,” Frank said as he and Joe shook hands with the man. “Cabezona pineapples.”
    The plantation owner drove the boys around, pointing out the fields of spiked plants in various stages of growth. Men were busy in one section cutting off huge pineapples with long, sharp knives. Then, after showing Frank and Joe the huge cannery, he took them into his office. A white-jacketed Puerto Rican boy brought glasses and a pitcher of iced pineapple juice on a tray.
    â€œAnd now, perhaps you would like to ask me some questions,” said Senor Delgado as they all sipped the fruit juice.
    Shooting a quick glance at his brother, Frank decided to take the plantation owner into their confidence. When the servant left, he explained that they were trying to solve a mystery.
    â€œWe have an idea,” Frank said, “that a certain dangerous group in Puerto Rico may use a pineapple as a sort of insignia. Have you ever heard of anyone wearing a pineapple tattoo on his left forearm?”
    Senor Delgado shook his head. “I have never heard of such a thing, señores, but it is certainly possible.”
    Joe inquired if Cabezona were the name of a place somewhere in Puerto Rico. Again Senor Delgado replied in the negative.
    But the native servant, returning just in time to hear the question, interrupted politely, “Excuse me, senores, but I have heard of a small place called Punta Cabezona on the coast north of here. The people call it this because the land is thickly overgrown, and looks like a huge pineapple. It is near the La Palma sugar central.”
    â€œSugar central?” Joe repeated as both boys tried hard to conceal their excitement.
    â€œA mill where the sugar cane is ground up and crushed,” Senor Delgado explained. “I have never heard of this Punta Cabezona, but I can at least give you a note of introduction to the owner of the central, and he can give you exact directions.”
    He quickly wrote the note, then the boys drove off. Some time later the mill came into view, in the midst of vast fields of sugar cane. A tall stack, jutting up from the mill’s corrugated iron roof, belched a steady plume of smoke.
    â€œThe whole air smells sweet around here,” Joe observed.
    Frank stopped the car and they got out at a small building with a sign marked Office. Inside, they found the manager and gave him Senor Delgad’s note. After reading it, the man rubbed his chin and looked puzzled.
    â€œI am sorry, but I myself am new in this district. However, I am sure that my foreman, Rodriguez, could direct you to this Punta Cabezona. You will find him working the cane crusher in the mill.”
    The boys walked over to the main central building. Trucks and tractor-trains loaded with cane were drawn up outside. Huge cranes lifted the stalks and dumped them into a chute.
    Frank and Joe entered and found themselves in a dark bedlam of noise. Giant rollers ground the cane into juice, which was then pumped into hot,