He continued. " . . . vegetation no protection . . . fhelter but crafh of countleff . . . breaking black illozvf . .

. high vein of gold . . .'"

In the margin was a crude drawing of a leaf. Frank pa.s.sed the paper to his brother. "That's all. Looks as if part of it has been cut off at the end."

The brothers spent the rest of the evening trying vainly to interpret the message and speculating on the ident.i.ty of the visitor.

"As I make it out," Frank remarked, "the storm in this message is the hurricane in which Elias Dodd perished with his family."

"And the question is, where?"

"Apparently they found some cover, for it mentions vegetation. If only we knew what kind. The leaf drawing must be a clue."

Joe tapped his head with a pencil. "But if Elias Dodd's bottle washed up on the sh.o.r.e, wouldn't the family have been out at sea?"

His brother had second thoughts. "There's something about the words 'vegetation' and 'shelter' that suggests a location on land. Besides, wouldn't Elias Dodd have needed some kind of shelter in which to write the note?"

"That figures," Joe replied. "What do you make of the last part?"

Frank reread the final fragments. ". . . crafh of countleff breaking black illowf . . . high vein of gold"

"I don't get it," Joe muttered. "Were there ever veins of gold in this area?"

Frank offered to find out. He went into the hall, where Joe heard him talking on the phone with Chet.

Presently Frank returned, excited.

"Joe! I think I may have it!"

"What?"

"The answer to at least most of the message." Frank explained, "It figures that this fifth word from the end could be 'willows,' referring, in other words, to black willow trees. A hurricane would certainly cause many branches to 'break' and even, whole trees to 'crash.'"

"Sure," Joe said, puzzled. "But if there were 'countless' black willows, they would be in an inland forest. I still don't see how any bottle could reach the sea from there."

Frank grinned. "I had a hunch and asked Chet to check it. Have you ever noticed where most black willows seem to grow?"

Joe recalled some of their past camping trips. "Near rivers or other bodies of water. Shadow Lake, and of course Willow River." Suddenly Joe caught the drift of Frank's reasoning. "Willow River, of course.

That would account for Elias Dodd's message reaching the sea!"

Frank said thoughtfully, "And gold is often found in stream beds."

Neither of the brothers recognized the crude drawing of the leaf. "Chet may be able to identify it," Frank said.

Joe suggested that they check in town about past gold mines or claims to any in Bayport history.

"Good idea," Frank agreed. "Now for the big question-is this message a copy of the real one?"

"Any ideas about who brought it?" Joe asked.

"One," Frank answered. "Professor Martin Dodd, though I don't understand why he wouldn't identify himself."

Joe remembered their last meeting with Jack and his father. "Mr. Dodd did suggest there was an urgency about solving the Pilgrim mystery. Let's start treasure sleuthing early tomorrow."

Mrs. Hardy brought the morning mail to the breakfast table next day. The brothers received more letters of complaint from Bayport residents, but the last letter Joe opened had a Bridgewater postmark. He paled as he read it.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed, pa.s.sing the typed letter to Frank. It said: Hardys-You were suckers to back us. Don't meddle any more.

"It's signed 'Jack'!" Frank cried out.

After the initial shock caused by the note, Frank became suspicious. "This doesn't sound like Jack. Did you save that grenade note? This typing looks the same."

The boys went upstairs and Joe produced the paper. He followed his brother into Mr. Hardy's study, where Frank got out a file on typewriter clues.

"I'm convinced of it!" he said at last. "Certain information here points to one interesting fact-both were typed by the same person. Also, the letters typed by the left hand are much darker-"

"Which might mean," Joe broke in, "that the person is-or was-left-handed. Slagel!"

After marking on the map the streams running into Willow River, Frank and Joe picked up Chet at the Bayport Museum. Still tired from yesterday's trek and overland chase, Chet was nevertheless proud about his part in the black-willow clue. He agreed to be their lookout for a plant like that in the drawing.

The boys' plan was to cover certain areas daily in their search for the treasure. Right now they would sleuth in a region north of Route 7, keeping a lookout for willow groves. The only stream in the region, shaded by old black willows, offered no clues to any gold or buried treasure and Chet saw no plants matching the leaf sketch.

"What's the next a.s.signment?" Chet asked. He pulled a small, wrapped raw cauliflower from his pocket, took off the paper, and started to eat it. "Ever try this?" he asked. "Very nourishing."

"It just so happens we have," Frank replied. "What say we have our first stakeout tonight?"

"Here?" Chet asked, munching.

"No. Out at Springer Road."

"Why don't we make it an overnight?" Joe proposed. "In the meantime, we'll finish fixing our motorcycle radio."

The others liked the idea. After supper the three a.s.sembled packs and drove out to Springer Road. The boys set up a three-man shift among some trees. The night pa.s.sed slowly as the Hardys and Chet each took a turn watching the night traffic for two hours, then sleeping during the next four.

No thefts were reported over the radio, and the cars using the turnoff, which they logged by hour and description, were few and not suspect. An hour after sunrise on Sat.u.r.day morning Frank woke the others and, disappointed, they headed home.

"You think maybe they've stopped stealing cars?" Chet yawned.

"I doubt it," Joe yelled back. "But there may have been a theft that hasn't been reported yet."

Joe's guess proved to be correct. Presently an announcement came over the police band that a car had been stolen several hours earlier outside a Sh.o.r.e Road gas station.

"That proves one thing," said Frank. "The thieves don't use Springer Road."

"One down, two to go!" Joe exulted. "Tonight we move to Route 7. Maybe we'll get a nibble on Mr.

Slagel or his cronies."

Later that morning Joe called the Bayport Records Office for information about old gold claims.

"Any luck?" Frank asked as Joe hung up.

"Not yet. The only man who could tell us anything about mineral history in Bayport is out of town and won't be back until Monday."

That afternoon the Hardys met Chet to comb another area in their search for the Pilgrim treasure. Chet, in khaki shorts and a pith helmet, looked like an overstuffed safari guide. They hunted through several thickets and a stream bed near a farm owned by John Apperson, but found no trace of gold.

"We've hardly seen a willow twig all day," Chet moaned disconsolately as they sat on a rock to rest. He picked a burr out of his sneakers. "And I haven't spotted any plant with a leaf like in that drawing. Might as well look for a pine needle in a haystack."

"Still," said Frank, "with what we covered today, we can eliminate a lot of that shadowed area on our map."

Suddenly Joe had an idea and hopped down.

"A bird's-eye view of this whole region might reveal some small streams not on any of our maps. Think we could get hold of Larry Dillon at the airfield?"

"He's usually free this late in the afternoon," Frank said. "Let's try him!"

The airport lay not far from their present location, and it took them less than half an hour to reach the field. They skirted the modern terminal and soon reached a smaller hangar where several single-engine aircraft stood poised about the taxiing area.

Sidestepping grease puddles, the boys entered the silver hangar and found Larry in a small, makeshift office. He was just getting into a leather flight jacket and greeted them warmly.

"Sure, I'll be glad to take you fellows around for a buzz!" The tall, crisp-voiced pilot smiled.

He slapped Chet heartily on the back and winked at Frank and Joe. "What do you think-shall we charge him for extra freight? Chet, you look as if you're dressed for a jungle adventure!"

Chet grinned. "My outfit is just for solving mysteries-and the cause of science!"

They followed Larry across the field to a handsome red, high-wing craft. Moments later, they were airborne.

"Any place in particular?" Larry asked above the din of the motors as he banked away from the sun.

"North Bayport would be fine," Frank answered.

As they flew eastward, coastal breakers came into view far below. They looked like a white lace fringe in the gentle wind. While Chet held the map spread out on his lap, Frank and Joe gazed through binoculars.

"I'm sorry these windows don't give you a bigger view," the pilot remarked. "At least we have good visibility today."

"This beats feet any day," Chet remarked languidly. "There's Bayport already!"

When they reached the city nestled around the sprawling, horseshoe-shaped inlet, Frank had Larry fly northward. They strained to pick up traces of small streams or ponds not on the map. Seeing none, they turned south, circling several tunes before reversing direction again.

"I guess the map is accurate," Frank said, after they had failed to uncover anything not charted. "Have you seen a spot that could be a hideout, Joe?"

"No. Every building looks accounted for on the map." Chet supported Joe's observation.

"Could we go down a little lower, Larry, for a couple of final spins?"

"Roger! Hold on!"

The plane nosed gracefully to a course nearer the ground. The black highway loomed larger, dotted with late-afternoon traffic. The shadow of their plane flickered on the surface of the blue sea.

They had just whined into a wide turn and started southward again, when they heard a ring of ripping steel to their rear. It was followed by a thudding flash of light inches away, and the shatter of gla.s.s in the instrument panel.

"We're being shot at!" Frank cried out.

"Keep away from the windows!" Larry yelled. He climbed frantically to a higher alt.i.tude.

"Good night!" Joe said, stunned. "Are we hit badly, Larry?"

"The motor's choking-I'm taking her back!"

As they pulled westward from the Sh.o.r.e Road area, the boys peered from the windows again, trying to determine the source of the bullets. But the alt.i.tude was too great.

Larry landed the plane safely. When investigators from the Civil Aeronautics Board arrived, the Hardys were looking at one of the slugs in the fuselage.

"They're from a submachine gun of foreign manufacture," one of the men reported.

Frank whispered to Joe, "That dud grenade was foreign made too! Makes me think of Dad's case."

The Hardys apologized to Larry for the trouble they had caused. "Nonsense." He smiled, wiping grease off his T-shirt. "I'll let you know if we get any leads to the sniper."

The boys rode to the Hardy home. There was no news of the missing Dodds or of the recently stolen cars.

Chet stayed to supper but proudly partook only of Mrs. Hardy's cooked vegetables. Aunt Gertrude stared incredulously, but offered him no dessert.

Later, Chet borrowed an old shirt and dungarees from Frank for the night's watch on Sh.o.r.e Road. After rea.s.sembling their gear they drove out to Route 7, the turnoff four miles south of Springer Road. The boys stationed themselves on a pine slope some fifty yards down the turnoff.

"We'll have to be on our toes tonight, men," Frank said. "There's more traffic on Route 7 than on Springer or Pembroke."

As darkness fell, the three arranged their shifts for the night. Joe propped up a twig fork-support for the binoculars while his brother stationed their motorcycles. Chet, who was to have the third shift, settled down on his sleeping bag with a small flashlight, engrossed in a thick book on botany.

"You fellows are pretty lucky to have a botanist at your service," he boasted, then yawned.

"Boy, are you going to itch tomorrow!" said Joe, and pointed to where Chet's bag rested in a patch of poison ivy.

"Oh, all right, maybe I don't know everything about botany," Chet grumbled, dragging his gear to another spot.

Hours later Chet took his watch. He sat cross-legged before the field-gla.s.s tripod listening to the police calls and looking over the Hardys' log of the cars which had pa.s.sed that night. Presently he heard a motor.

"Maybe this is it!" he thought as two headlight beams appeared. The next instant Chet saw the dark-colored sedan suddenly speed up and roar wildly toward him on Route 7. It swerved, caromed off a bush, and raced down the road.

The noise awakened Frank and Joe. "That may be our first bite!" Frank yelled. "Let's go!"

CHAPTER VIII.