The Missing Chums
By Franklin W Dixon.
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I
The Three Strangers
“You certainly ought to have a dandy trip.”
“I’ll say we will, Frank! We sure wish you could come along.”
Frank Hardy grinned ruefully and shook his head.
“I’m afraid we’re out of luck. Joe and I may take a little trip later on, but we can’t make it this time.”
“Just think of it!” said Chet Morton, the other speaker. “A whole week motorboating along the coast! We’re the lucky boys, eh, Biff?”
Biff Hooper, at the wheel of his father’s new motorboat, nodded emphatically.
“You bet we’re lucky. I’m glad dad got this boat in time for the summer holidays. I’ve been dreaming of a trip like that for years.”
“It won’t be the same without the Hardy Boys,” returned Chet. “I had it all planned out that Frank and Joe would be coming along with us in their own boat and we’d make a real party of it.”
“Can’t be done,” observed Joe Hardy, settling himself more comfortably in the back of the boat. “There’s nothing Frank and I would like better—but duty calls!” he exclaimed dramatically, slapping himself on the chest.
“Duty, my neck!” grunted Frank. “We just have to stay at home while dad is in Chicago, that’s all. It’ll be pretty dull without Chet and Biff around to help us kill time.”
“You can put in the hours thinking of Biff and me,” consoled Chet. “At night you can just picture us sitting around our campfire away up the coast, and in the daytime you can imagine us speeding away out over the bounding main.” He postured with one foot on the gunwale. “A sailor’s life for me, my hearties! Yo, ho, and a bottle of ink!”
The boat gave a sudden lurch at that moment, for Biff Hooper had not yet mastered the art of navigation and Chet wavered precariously for a few seconds, finally losing his balance and sitting down heavily in a smear of grease at the bottom of the craft.
“Yo ho, and a bottle of ink
And he nearly fell into the drink,”
chanted Frank Hardy, as the boys roared with laughter at their chum’s discomfiture.
“Poet!” sniffed Chet, as he got up. Then, as he gingerly felt the seat of his trousers: “Another pair of pants ready for the cleaners. I ought to wear overalls when I go boating.” He grinned as he said it, for Chet Morton was the soul of good nature and it took a great deal more than a smear of grease to erase his ready smile.
The four boys, Frank and Joe Hardy, Chet Morton and Biff Hooper, all chums in the same set at the Bayport high school, were out on Barmet Bay in the Envoy, the Hooper motorboat, helping Biff learn to run the craft. Their assistance consisted chiefly of mocking criticisms of the luckless Biff’s posture at the helm and sundry false alarms to the effect that the boat was springing a leak or that the engine was about to blow up. Each announcement had the effect of precipitating the steersman into a panic of apprehension and sending his tormentors into convulsions of laughter.
Biff had made good progress, however, as he had been with the Hardy boys on previous occasions in their own motorboat, the Sleuth, and he had picked up the rudiments of handling the craft. He was anxious to be a first-rate pilot before starting up the coast on his projected trip with Chet Morton the following week. He had an aptitude for mechanics and he was satisfied that he would have a thorough understanding of his boat by the time they were ready to start.
“If the coast guards find two little boys like you roaming around in a great big motorboat they’re likely to give you a spanking and send you back home,” laughed Frank. “I’ll bet you’ll be back in Bayport inside of two days.”
“Rats!” replied Chet, inelegantly, if forcefully. “If our grub holds out we’ll be away more than the week.”
“There’s no danger of that. Not with
