Their mother returned, saying she had telephoned the message. The boys stayed up late, but there was no call from Biff, and their father had not returned.
Next morning he told them the
Hawk
had sailed ahead of schedule.
“There was nothing suspicious about it,” Mr. Hardy reported. “I had Sam Radley posted at the docks for the past two days, looking things over. He watched the ship being loaded. Most of the cargo was destined for cities down the coast.”
“What did she carry?” Frank inquired.
“Large cans of paint and some machinery.”
“Is Sharp's spy still on duty?” asked Joe, walking toward the front window. “He's gone,” the boy reported, “but it seems someone else has taken his place!”
A taller, leaner man was strolling back and forth across the street, as if waiting for someone.
The telephone rang. It was Biff Hooper.
“The trip's off,” he said to Joe, who had answered.
“Okay,” Joe replied. “See you later!”
Biff had spoken in code in case the wire was being tapped. “The trip's off,” meant that he was still trying to get reservations.
“I wish we could get rid of that spy,” said Joe. “I don't feel like sitting home all day!”
“I've got a plan,” Frank said. “If it works, we'll also have a pretty good idea why he was posted here.”
The ruse was simple. Joe walked out of the house and headed down the street. The man on the other side eyed him carefully, apparently undecided whether to follow or not. When Joe was halfway down the block, Frank ran out of the house.
“Joe!” he shouted.
His brother turned and looked back.
“Come here a minute!”
Joe ran rapidly toward the house, and Frank called out loudly, “The trip's off.”
“The freighter trip?”
“Yes. Mr. McClintock says to forget it. He's leaving town.”
Joe came up the steps and into the house. From behind the window curtains the boys watched the man across the street. Obviously he had heard enough, for he walked briskly away and disappeared from sight around the corner.
“Pretty good trick!” Joe chuckled. “No doubt he's off to report what he's heard.”
“Let's get out of here while he's gone,” said Frank. “I'd like to follow up something new. You remember when I was on the
Wasp
I heard a man speak of old Crowfeet? Maybe we can find out who he is.”
“How?”
“When we were with Andy Harkness the other day he mentioned an Abel Jedson, an old retired officer. Says this guy knows every ship along this coast and everybody on them. Suppose we ask him about Crowfeet.”
“Why not? Come on.”
They found Abel Jedson living in a little cottage near the bay, where he could watch the comings and goings of the ships. He was a spry, shrewd man with a stubby gray beard and twinkling blue eyes.
Jedson sat on his porch, listening to the radio. On the window sill nearby was a noisy parrot that squawked, “No boarders wanted!” as the boys came up the walk.
They introduced themselves, and after talking about ships in general, Frank asked, “Have you ever heard any stories about a phantom freighter?”
“Hundreds of them.” The old man chuckled. “I've been hearing yarns âbout ghost ships ever since I was knee-high. All nonsense.”
Joe asked if he knew Captain Sharp of the Hawk. The old sailor cocked his head to one side and said he had seen the freighter, but knew nothing about her or her captain.
“Ever hear of a man called Crowfeet?” asked Frank.
“Name seems familiar, somehow,” mused Jedson. “I'll try and remember.” He twiddled the short-wave dial of the radio and brought forth a barrage of squeals that provoked the parrot to a rasping protest. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” he squawked.
Jedson gave the dial another twist. Suddenly the boys jumped in astonishment. Over short-wave they heard a gruff voice say “A23â151âC2.” Then silence.
The numbers printed on the boxes Frank had seen in the hold of the
Wasp!
“Crowfeet,” Captain Jedson muttered, unaware of the excitement the announcement had aroused. “Seems to me it had something to do with a fellow named Harryâthat's itâHarry Piper! That's what folks used to call him. Crowfeet!”
“Is he still alive?” Joe asked.
“Don't know. Never heard of him dying, anyway. Captain Harry Piper of the freighter
Fal
con.”
“The
Falcon!”
exclaimed Frank.
“That's right. Tell you where you might find out about him. When he was ashore he used to live with his brother John, about ten miles out of town. John had a farm a little ways in from Shore Road.”
The Hardys were elated. At last they had unearthed a valuable clue! After thanking Jedson, they got into the car and set off for Shore Road.
The Piper farm was difficult to locate. A man cutting grass in a small country cemetery finally put the boys on the right track. He pointed out an abandoned property next to the cemetery.
“John Piper died last year,” he informed them. “No one has lived there since.”
Frank and Joe got out of the car and crossed the unkempt fields. The whole place was in a state of neglect. Weeds grew high in the yard. Parts of farm machinery lay rusting by a tumble-down fence. The farmhouse windows were boarded. But the place might hold a clue I
“Let's check out the barn first,” Joe suggested.
To their surprise the hayloft was stacked high. On the floor was another immense pile of hay, but upon closer investigation the boys found that it was merely a cover for quantities of cowhides.
“These hides are worth plenty!” Frank exclaimed. “I wonder why they're stored here.”
They decided to ask the cemetery caretaker if he knew anything about it, and crossed the fields again to talk to him. The man was amazed to hear about the hides.
“Can't figure it out,” he said. “I haven't seen anyone near the farm since John Piper died.”
“Did he have a large herd of cattle?”
“Heck, no. Never kept more than one cow.”
“Let's go back there,” Joe said. “Something funny about this.”
Surprisingly a truck had arrived in their absence and was parked in the barnyard.
“We'd better take it easy,” advised Frank. “I don't like this.”
They approached cautiously, circling to the rear of the barn. Quietly they crept up to the back door and opened it. The place seemed as deserted as before. Then they noticed that the great pile of hay on the floor had been scattered from one end of the place to the other. Stepping inside, they gasped in amazement.
The stacks of hides had disappeared!
CHAPTER
XVI
Success and Failure
“WE'D better take a look at that truck,” Frank suggested.
But before the Hardys reached the door, there was a sudden murmur of voices and sounds of footsteps above them. They glanced up just as a huge mass of hay came tumbling down directly at them!
Frank, unable to get out of the way, was knocked to the floor by its weight and completely covered. He held his breath to avoid sucking in the dust. When he tried to rise, he was unable to throw off the heavy load.
With a startled cry Joe had leaped back, but too late. Though he was not engulfed by the hay, a hard object struck him on the head. He fell to the floor, unconscious!
Frank, struggling to get out, was almost smothered. As he fought his way clear of the hay he heard a man say:
“That'll take care of those kids till we can get the rest of this stuff moved.”
“Let's hurry,” urged a companion.
Moments later the truck lumbered down the lane. Frank was still clawing at the hay and gasping for air. Stumbling free at last, he saw to his horror that Joe lay motionless. There was a large box beside his head.
It was several minutes before Joe revived. “What hit me?” he gasped.
Frank pointed to the box. When he lifted it, he realized that Joe might have been fatally injured if the box had struck him squarely. He opened it and found an electric motor inside.
“Wow! Maybe we've really hit on something this time,” he said. “Dad'll want to see this!”
Fenton Hardy was indeed interested when his sons brought the motor home. He took the number and said he would check with his client. The detective was convinced that the boys had located one of the hiding places for the stolen goods.
“Wool, hides, motors, and documents,” Mr. Hardy mused as the three discussed the various elements of the mystery. “I believe we're on the track of a big gang who are handling all these things.”
“Do you think Crowfeet is the ringleader?” asked Joe.
“Possibly. There certainly seems to be a direct link between him and the abandoned Piper farm. In all likelihood he's a smuggler. He may have lain offshore to send in hides in small boats like the
Wasp,
and received stolen motor parts and who knows what else in return.”
“On the
Falcon?”
“Yes, and I have an idea that Crowfeet was warned and has changed the color and name of his freighter.”
“With some of that paint Captain Sharp had on the
Hawk!”
Frank exclaimed excitedly.
“Then that's why Captain Sharp didn't want us on board and hired a man to watch our house?” asked Joe.
Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It certainly all seems to fit together,” he said. “But there are still many questions to be answered. One is, why is a smuggler mixed up with the faking of documents found in various states of our country? Well, your good work has made more work for me.” The detective smiled. “I must be going!”
After he left the house, Frank and Joe continued to talk over the aspects of the case, which still puzzled them. What was the strange abandoned ship they had seen? Where had it gone? What of Captain Harkness's story about the phantom freighter named the
Falcon?
The conference was interrupted by the arrival of Biff Hooper. The tall, pleasant boy brought good news. Beaming, he held up four tickets.
“Reservations!” He grinned. “You sail from Southport day after tomorrow.” .
The Hardys could hardly believe their ears. After all the difficulties they had experienced it seemed impossible that Biff had succeeded in securing accommodations so quickly.
“You didn't go to that Southport agency again, did you?” asked Frank.
“No. Of course not. After somebody filched your tickets there before, I didn't think they'd trust me. I went to one in Eastport. It so happened that they had some cancellations.”
Eagerly Frank and Joe examined the precious tickets which were for one of the freighters of the Neptune Lineâthe
Father Neptune.
“The ship docks at Southport tomorrow and it's sailing for the Caribbean Islands and South America,” Biff explained.
“Boy, it sounds great!” Joe said. “Mr. McClintock sure will be glad to hear this. I'll give him a ring.” He went to the telephone, but Frank stopped him.
“Let's go tell him personally,” he suggested. “Then Biff can collect the money his father laid out for the tickets.”
The three hurried out of the house, piled into the convertible, and drove to the Bayport Hotel.
“I knew it! I knew it was possible,” said Mr. McClintock, rubbing his hands in glee when he heard the news. “Thank you, Biff. Thank you.”
Mr. McClintock kept cash in the hotel safe. He paid Biff, then began talking about all he would have to do to get ready for the trip. The boys left him, broad smiles on their faces. They recalled the time he had suddenly decided to go on the
Hawk
and had given them ten minutes in which to get prepared.
The Hardys' next stop was at the Morton farm. They expected Chet to whoop with joy at hearing the news about the voyage on the
Father Neptune.
But he did nothing of the sort.
“Say, what's the matter with you?” Joe exploded. “Don't you understand? Here's your ticket for South America, all expenses paid!”
“Sorry, fellows,” Chet groaned. “I can't go with you. I'll be here in Bayport, working my head off, tying flies and trying to sell them, while you're out on the ocean having a wonderful time.”
“What happened?” Frank asked.
Chet explained that he was not allowed to go on the trip unless he first paid back every cent of the money he had borrowed to buy the forty-five-dollar rod.
“I thought you were going to try to sell it,” said Joe.
Chet hung his head. “Before I had a chance, I ran over the rod with the car in the garage and ruined it.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “I don't believe it!” Frank said.
“It's true,” Chet concluded drearily. “You'll have to go without me. Take Biff in my place.”
Biff, however, showed no enthusiasm. Neither did the Hardys. The zest had gone out of the trip. It would not be the same without Chet.
Suddenly Frank brightened. “I've got it!” he declared. “I know what we'll do!”
CHAPTER XVII
Danger at the Carnival
“STEP upâstep up, ladies and gentlemen! The greatest bargain at the carnival! For a few cents, ninety-nine to be exact, less than a dollar, you can buy the lures that catch the biggest fish! Step up âstep up! Fine handmade flies!”
Chet Morton, red-faced and beaming, paused for breath. Then he blew a loud blast on a bugle. When the startled people attending the Southport carnival jumped and looked his way, he held aloft a handful of bright-colored flies and went into his speech again.