"Promises, promises," purred Iola Morton, as Joe slunk down the ramp. Chet's slim, brunette sister had small features and twinkling eyes, and looked very pretty in an aqua-colored swimsuit.

"Frank Hardy, it's about time!" sang out another voice. Callie Shaw, a slim blonde in a red suit, gasped at the boys' sooty appearance.

Chet sat comfortably in the back of the boat, finishing a piece of watermelon. "Wow! You look like boiled frankfurters. Wrap yourselves in rolls, with a little mustard, and I'll break my diet!"

The others laughed, then Frank explained their delay. "We'll change and be right with you."

The brothers ran to a nearby bathhouse. Then they rejoined the others and started up the Sleuth's motor.

The sleek blue-and-white craft moved swiftly out into the bay, its bow chopping through glistening breakers. Frank steered around the tip of the bay and headed the Sleuth north. They cast anchor near a small cove.

Chet had hit the water before the anchor. "Come on in!" he gurgled, surfacing with immense satisfaction.

Amidst jokes about a "salt bath," the sooty Hardys followed the girls overboard.

The bracing water refreshed them. After a rest in the motorboat, the five swimmers decided to go in again. They waited for a black fishing boat to pa.s.s. It anch.o.r.ed a short distance away. Then Callie dived in. Several seconds went by. She did not reappear.

"Something may have happened to Callie!" Iola said fearfully. The three boys dived in at once and plunged beneath the surface. Twenty feet down Frank's blood chilled. Callie, her face blanched with fear, was struggling violently.

She was enclosed in a small, tightly wound net!

His lungs bursting, Frank reached her, grasped the net, and started upward. When they broke surface, Callie was choking and too weak to swim. Desperately, Frank bore her to the Sleuth. Joe cut the nylon net and Callie was lifted over the side. She gestured that she was all right, but it was several minutes before she could explain what had happened.

"Some man-he was in a black skin-diving suit and mask-grabbed me and threw the net around . . ."

The sound of a motor reached their ears. The fishing boat nearby was heading away.

"He may have come from that boat!" said Frank. "Let's find out! There was a black fishing boat around just before the accident to Jack's boat!"

They pulled anchor and Frank steered the Sleuth after the fishing boat. The boys signaled to the pilot several times. He cut his engine as they drew alongside.

The fisherman, young and slim, wore a checkered sport shirt and a white yachting cap. He appeared annoyed at being disturbed.

"What do you want?" he asked curtly.

"Know anything about a skin diver around the cove back there?" Frank asked.

The young man started his motor. "Skin diver? No." His craft roared away.

Upset by the near-fatal accident to Callie, the five young people headed back to the boathouse. The Hardys bade good-by to Chet, Callie, and Iola, who planned to report the incident to the maritime authorities.

As the brothers were locking up, they saw Tony docking his Napoli. They related their recent adventures.

Tony whistled. "You've been busy! I'm out in the Napoli nearly every day, so I'll keep an eye on that fishing launch. It's sure suspicious why the pilot pulled away so fast. Also, if I see anything of the Dodds'

boat, I'll let you know."

On the way home, Frank and Joe stopped at the Records Building to check on past gold claims in the vicinity. The clerk who was familiar with the older mineral files was there. They spoke with him in a small office adjoining musty rows of books.

"Gold?" the white-haired man repeated, smiling agreeably. "Are you fellows hoping to strike it rich before school resumes?"

"No." Frank chuckled. "Our interest is historical. Have you any record of gold streaks at all-particularly north of Bayport?"

The old man shook his head. "No, son. To my knowledge, no gold has ever been found, or sought for that matter, within fifty miles of Bayport. But it's odd you should ask too. Another fellow was in here just a few hours ago looking for the same information. Didn't give his name.'**

"What did he look like?" Frank cut in.

The clerk removed his spectacles. "Maybe forty, or fifty, dark hair, a beard. Sounded like an educated fellow."

The boys thanked the clerk and drove home, wondering who the anonymous inquirer was. Someone who had knowledge of the Pilgrim clue? "The beard might have been a disguise," Joe remarked. "I doubt that the man was Slagel, though. He'd never strike anyone as being an educated person."

"The bearded man could be the missing professor-Martin Dodd!" Frank suggested.

Later, just before sunset, the boys were seated in Mr. Hardy's study reviewing their sleuthing plans for the evening. Suddenly Joe stood up. "Frank! Let's move our watch to Pembroke Road tonight!"

Frank knit his brows. "But we haven't eliminated Route 7 yet."

"I think we can!" Joe said. "There seems to be a pattern shaping up: the stolen car U-turns, the warning notes from the same person, Jack's things being found at theft scenes-whoever masterminds this operation has made an effort to throw the police off track. Well, what better way than to send Slagel around a turn-leaving skid marks-while someone else whisks the stolen car away to another spot, like Pembroke Road?"

"Joe, you're right! Decoy maneuvers! That might also account for the tire tracks and paint we found in the woods!"

The Hardys agreed on a plan to watch both the Birnham farm and Pembroke Road. By now it was dark, so after contacting Biff Hooper and Chet, they met them midway out on Sh.o.r.e Road. There they split up, Biff and Joe going farther north with the motorcycles to watch the intersection. Chet and Frank went in Chet's jalopy to George Birnham's farm.

The moon had risen, but was occasionally obscured by clouds. Frank guided Chet to a secluded woods.

The jalopy was parked at the edge and the boys set out, carrying packs. Silently they walked across the dark farm fields where silvery mist gave the air a chill.

When the lights of Birnham's farmhouse appeared on the west side of Sh.o.r.e Road, they stopped. There was no place to hide, but Frank pointed to deep furrows in a field.

"We can lie low between those and get a pretty good view of anything going on near the house."

Chet followed Frank as he crawled under a wooden fence. The boys unrolled their sleeping bags between two rows of turned-up soil. Lying on their sides, they watched the house. Occasionally Frank glanced through his binoculars.

The hours pa.s.sed slowly, uninterrupted except for the rhythmic chant of katydids and the boys' whispers, both of them having decided to keep awake until one became tired. Chet bit noisily into his last carrot.

"Shhh!" Frank whispered. "Birnham will think somebody's turned on that tractor I see over there!" Chet m.u.f.fled his bites and laughter.

An hour later the boys saw a black sedan pull up the dirt road to the house. Frank watched through the binoculars. "It's Slagel!" he whispered excitedly as Birnham came out on the porch. "So those two are in cahoots! Wish we could hear what they're saying."

Presently Slagel returned to his car and drove out, heading south on the highway. Then the farmer left the porch and walked to the end of the dirt road. Frank and Chet saw the squat figure duck under the fence and cross the field some fifty feet to their rear. Fortunately, the moon had gone under again.

"Keep as low as you can!" Frank whispered.

He and Chet listened keenly. In a moment they heard a motor starting up. Frank stole a backward glance and saw Birnham seated atop the large tractor to which a cultivator was attached.

"What's he doing?" Chet asked, burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag.

Frank watched as the noisy vehicle began to move. The farmer did not turn on the headlights.

"He's heading in our direction!" Frank gasped.

He could feel Chet shaking violently alongside him. "Quick!" said Frank. "Keep low and roll to the right!"

Chet struggled to obey, but his eyes bulged with desperation. "I can't-the zipper on my sleeping bag is stuck!"

Frank yanked wildly at the zipper, but it was no use!

CHAPTER X.

Strange Roadblock m.u.f.fLING Chet's yell, Frank rolled him violently over and landed quickly on top of him. The tractor and its whirling blades missed them by inches!

The vehicle's sound grew fainter as Birnham continued ahead. As Frank looked up he noticed a large truck pa.s.sing slowly on the road going in the direction of Bayport.

"It's okay, pal," he said, patting Chet. "But let's get to the road before Birnham starts back on this row!"

Chet finally freed himself from the sleeping bag. Trailing it behind him, the heavy youth followed Frank across the field, running in a low crouch. Once beneath the fence, the boys paused to catch their breath, and saw Birnham turn.

"I've had it," Chet moaned softly. "Let's get out of here!"

"Shhh!"

Puzzled by the farmer's strange activity, they watched his tractor, still without lights, churn earth at a rise near the highway. After twenty minutes, the vehicle stopped. Birnham cut the motor, jumped down, and returned to his house. In a few moments the building was dark.

"What was that all about?" Chet asked. "Did Birnham know we were here and do that just to scare us?"

"If not, why this night work without lights?" said Frank.

Chet grimaced. "Nuttiest thing I've ever seen!"

Exhausted, the two boys took shifts for the remainder of the night. When nothing more had transpired by sunrise, they drove north and rejoined Joe and Biff.

They had had an uneventful night at Pembroke Road but were excited by Frank and Chet's adventure, and agreed that Birnham's actions were indeed suspicious.

Frank asked, "Did you pick up anything on the radio?"

"Nothing new," Biff said.

He climbed into Chet's jalopy and they roared off. The brothers soon pa.s.sed them on the motorcycles.

The Hardys were just entering Bayport when report of a theft came over the police band.

". . . the car, reported missing at Lucas Street in Bridge-water was later recovered, abandoned on the other side of town. Owner, while sitting in his parked car, was ga.s.sed. No clues . . ."

"In Bridgewater!" Joe exclaimed. "That's not only the first theft someplace besides Sh.o.r.e Road, but the first time the thieves have failed! Apparently they were frightened off before they could get out of town."

"So it was the car thieves who ga.s.sed Scratch and us," said Frank. Another idea struck him.

"Bridgewater's at the end of Pembroke Road, Joe-also, remember it's the postmark on that phony typed note from Jack!"

"Come on! Let's check on Slagel at the Excelsior!"

The Hardys cycled to the waterfront hotel, and Joe went in to inquire. When he emerged from the run-down doorway, his expression was not happy. "Slagel-or 'James Wright'-checked out early this morning!"

The boys decided to sacrifice their treasure hunt for the day and check the hotels in Bridgewater for Slagel. First they stopped at a diner and had a quick breakfast. Afterward, they hurried to their motorcycles and started up. Just then a middle-aged man strode over to them.

"You're the Hardy boys, aren't you?" he demanded.

They nodded. "My car was stolen a week ago!" he shouted. "You and your father had a nerve giving bail money to car thieves and allowing them to escape! What are you doing to help? If my car is not recovered, I'll hold you personally responsible!" The man stormed away.

Frank was depressed. "This feeling in town worries me, Joe-not because of the ridicule or threats, but because so many people seem to be convinced that the Dodds are guilty."

As the Hardys coasted to the corner, Joe groaned. Approaching them with a broad smirk was the dumpy figure of would-be detective Oscar Sm.u.f.f.

"What ho, it's our two young sleuths!" he sang out flatly. "Any sign of your Dodd friends, the car thieves?"

Frank was too accustomed to Sm.u.f.f's ways to be incensed. "We think the Dodds are innocent," he responded.

"If you boys were smart," Sm.u.f.f went on, "you'd memorize features of all the stolen cars, like I do. I'm watching the streets."

"For the Dodds too?" Joe asked.

Sm.u.f.f nodded smugly. "Or accomplices. I think a woman is involved in the racket somewhere, and if my deductions are correct, she's got blond hair."

He whipped out a note pad and glanced at a scribbled list. Then the "detective" looked up at a sedan stopping for a red light. Suddenly his eyes widened. "There's one of the stolen cars now!"

Frank recognized the blond woman driver as Chief Collig's wife and tried to restrain Sm.u.f.f. But the self-appointed detective excitedly darted into the street and up to the sedan. Poking his head in the window, he started to accuse the woman loudly. She turned to face him indignantly.

The next moment Sm.u.f.f stepped back, open-mouthed and flaming with embarra.s.sment as he realized his mistake. By this time the light had changed and horns were blasting impatiently. Stuttering apologies, Sm.u.f.f retreated rapidly, wiping his forehead. Mrs. Collig drove off and the deflated detective hastily returned to the sidewalk. He pa.s.sed the grinning Hardys with a sheepish look and disappeared around a corner.

Still chuckling, Frank and Joe rode off. They pa.s.sed the Birnham farm and turned down Pembroke Road on the way to Bridgewater.

"Everything seems to narrow down to this road-and now to Bridgewater," Frank remarked. "And according to the map-some of Birnham's property touches Pembroke."

As the brothers pa.s.sed an open field, they noticed a man ahead leaning comfortably on a fence. He held a walking stick in one hand.

"Slagel!" Joe exclaimed.

"It's time we had a word with him!" Frank declared.

The Hardys rolled to a stop, hopped off, and hurried toward Slagel. He turned as if to walk away, but the boys confronted him.

"Mr. Wright-?" Frank began.