CHAPTER I

Stolen Cars

“It certainly is a mystery how those autos disappeared,” said Frank
Hardy.

“I’ll say it is,” replied his brother Joe, raising his voice to be heard
above the clatter of their motorcycles. “Just think of it! Two cars last
week, two the week before, and one the week before that. Some thieving,
I’ll tell the world.”

“And Martin’s car was brand new,” called back Chet Morton.

“Mighty tough,” Frank affirmed. “It’s bad enough to lose a car, but to
have it stolen the day after you’ve bought it is a little too much.”

“Must be a regular gang of car thieves at work.”

The three boys, on their motorcycles, were speeding along the Shore Road
that skirted Barmet Bay, just out of Bayport, on a sunny Saturday
afternoon.

“A person takes a big risk leaving a car parked along this road,” said
Chet. “Every one of the five autos disappeared along the shore.”

“What beats me,” declared Frank, turning out to avoid a mud puddle, “is
how the thieves got away with them. None of them were seen coming into
Bayport and there was no trace of them at the other end of the Shore
Road, either. Seems as if they just vanished into the thin air.”

Chet slowed down so that the trio were riding abreast.

“If the cars were only ordinary flivvers it wouldn’t be so bad. But they
were all expensive, high-powered hacks. Martin’s car would be spotted
anywhere, and so would the others. It’s funny that no one saw them.”

“Some of these auto thieves are mighty smart,” opined Joe. “They
certainly have their nerve, working this road for three weeks, and with
everybody on the lookout for them. It has certainly put a crimp in the
bathing and fishing along the Shore Road.” He gestured toward the beach
below. “Why, usually on a Saturday afternoon like this you’ll see a
dozen cars parked along here. What with boating and fishing and
swimming, lots of people used to come out from town. Now, if they come
at all, they walk.”

“And you can’t blame ’em. Who wants to lose a high-priced car just for
the sake of an hour’s fishing?”

“It’s certainly mighty strange,” Frank reiterated. “After taking two
cars from almost the same place, you’d imagine the thieves would be
scared to come back.”

“They have plenty of nerve, that’s certain.”

“It isn’t as if the police haven’t been busy. They’ve watched this road
ever since the first car was lost, and the other autos were stolen just
the same. They’ve kept an eye on both ends of the highway and there
wasn’t a sign of any of them.”

“It’s strange that they haven’t turned up somewhere. Lots of times a
stolen car will be recovered when the thief tries to get rid of it. The
engine numbers alone often trip them up. Of course, I guess they’d clap
on false license plates, but it’s pretty hard to get away with a
fine-looking car like Martin’s unless it’s been repainted and altered a
bit.”

“It’s no fun to lose a car,” declared Chet. “I remember how badly I felt
when the crooks stole my roadster last year.”

“You got it back, anyway.”

“Yes, I got it back. But I was mighty blue until I did.”

The motorcycles rounded a bend in the road and before the boys lay a
wide stretch of open highway, descending in a gradual slope. To their
right lay Barmet Bay, sparkling in the afternoon sun. At the bottom of
the slope was a grassy expanse that opened out on the beach, the road at
this point being only a few feet above the sea level. The little meadow
was a favorite parking place for motorists, as their cars could regain
the road easily, but to-day there was not an automobile in sight.

“Look at that,” said Frank. “No one here on a nice afternoon like this.”

At that moment, however, the appearance of a man who came running up
from the beach and across the grass, belied his words.

“Some one’s here all right,” remarked Joe. “And he seems in a hurry
about something.”

As the boys rode down the slope they could see the man hastening out
into the middle of the road, where he stood waving his arms.

“Looks like Isaac Fussy, doesn’t it?” said Chet.

“The rich old fisherman?”

“Yes, it’s Fussy all right. Look at him dancing around. Wonder what’s
the matter.”

In a few moments the boys had drawn near enough to see that the old man
who was waving at them so frantically was indeed the wealthy and
eccentric old fisherman known as Isaac Fussy. He was a queer old fellow
who lived by himself in a big house on the outskirts of Bayport, and who
spent much of his time on the bay. Just now he was evidently in a state
of great agitation, shouting and waving his arms as the boys approached.

The motorcycles came to a stop.

“Anything wrong?” asked Frank.

“After ’em! After ’em!” shouted the old man, his face crimson with
wrath, as he shook his fist in the air. “Chase ’em, lads!”

“Who? What’s the matter, Mr. Fussy?”

“Thieves! That’s what’s the matter! My automobile!”

“Stolen?”

“Stolen! Robbed! I left it here not ten minutes ago and was startin’ out
in my boat to fish. I just looked back in time to see somebody drivin’
away in it. An outrage!” shouted Mr. Fussy. “After ’em!”

“Why, it’s been stolen just a few minutes ago, then?”

“They just went tearin’ around the bend before you came in sight. If you
look lively, you’ll catch ’em. You know my car—it’s a big blue Cadillac
sedan. Paid twenty-eight hundred for it. Catch them thieves and I’ll
reward you. Don’t waste time standin’ here talkin’ about it—”

The motorcycles roared and leaped forward.

“We’ll do our best!” shouted Frank, as he crouched low over the handle
bars.

A cloud of dust arose as the three powerful machines sped off down the
road, leaving Isaac Fussy still muttering imprecations on the thieves
who had stolen his Cadillac.

The boys were excited and elated. This was as close as any one had yet
come to being on the trail of the auto thieves, and they knew that in
their fast motorcycles they possessed a decided advantage. If, as Isaac
Fussy said, the car had just disappeared around the bend a few minutes
previously, they stood an excellent chance of overtaking it.

The motorcycles slanted far over to the side as they took the curve in a
blinding screen of dust, then righted again as they sped down the next
open stretch at terrific speed. There was no sign of the stolen car, but
the open stretch was only about a quarter of a mile in length, skirting
the shore, and the road then wound inland behind a bank of trees.

The clamor of the pounding motors filled the summer air as the boys
raced in pursuit. Before them was a thin haze of dust, just settling in
the road, which indicated that an automobile had passed that way only a
few minutes before.

“We’ll catch ’em!” shouted Chet, jubilantly.

Without slackening speed, they took the next curve and then found
themselves speeding through a cool grove, where the road wound about,
cutting off the view ahead. When at length they emerged into an open
section of farming land they gazed anxiously into the distance in hope
of seeing their quarry, but they were disappointed. The fleeing car was
not yet in sight.

Down the road, between the crooked fences, they raced, the engines
raising a tremendous racket.

A few hundred yards ahead was the entrance to a lane that led into a
farm. The lane was lined with dense trees.

Suddenly, Frank gasped and desperately began to cut down his speed. For,
out of this lane, emerged a team of horses, drawing a huge wagonload of
hay.

The dust raised by Frank’s motorcycle obscured the view of the other
boys, and for a moment they did not realize what was happening. The
trees along the lane had hidden the hay wagon from sight and Frank was
almost upon it before he realized the danger. It was impossible to stop
in time.

The man on the hay wagon shouted and waved his arms. The horses reared.
The clumsy vehicle presented a barrier directly across the road.

There was only one thing for it. The boys had to take to the ditch to
avoid a collision. There was no time to stop.

Frank wheeled his speeding machine to the left, praying for the best.
For a moment, he thought he would make it. The motorcycle bumped and
lurched, and then it went over on its side and he was flung violently
over the handle bars into the bushes ahead.

Behind him he heard shouts, the roar of the other machines, and then two
crashes, which came almost simultaneously. Chet and Joe had also been
spilled.