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 anyone 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.
II
Circumstantial Evidence
For a moment Frank Hardy lay in the thicket, stunned by the shock of his fall, with the breath knocked out of him. Gradually, he recovered himself and managed to scramble to his feet. His first thought was for the other boys, but a quick glance showed that both Chet and Joe were unhurt, beyond a few bruises.
Joe was sitting in the ditch, looking around him in bewilderment, as though he had not yet realized exactly what had happened, while Chet Morton was picking himself up out of a clump of undergrowth near the fence. In the road, the driver of the hay wagon was trying to calm his startled horses, who were rearing and plunging in fright.
“Any bones broken?” asked Frank of his two companions.
Chet carefully counted his ribs.
“Guess not,” he announced, cheerfully. “I think I’m all here, safe and sound. Wow! What a spill that was!”
Joe got to his feet.
“Good thing this is a soft ditch,” he said. “It’s lucky somebody didn’t get a broken neck.”
“Well, nobody did, and that’s that. How about the bikes?”
Frank examined his own motorcycle, righted it, and found that the machine was not damaged beyond a bent mudguard. He had managed to slow down sufficiently before
